Endure to Hope
by GypsyJinx
Summary: Centered on Basch and Noah fon Ronsenburg with generous looks back at their childhood. Set directly after Final Fantasy XII with the twist that even death has abandoned Noah. Basch wears the mantle of Gabranth as protector of a threatened peace. Larsa, Zargabaath, Ashe, OCs. Because death is just the easy way out: Endure. Because a warrior must have something to endure for: Hope.
1. Lost and Found

"Live, Gabranth." Drace' words returned again and again, echoing, whispering from a shadowed hallway of his mind. Almost it seemed he could reach the voice, but then a flash of pain caused him to recoil as he felt the sword...was the blade in his hand or in his side?

He felt warmth in his throat, a strange bittersweet substance that caused his body to convulse even as it stole the pain.

"This to you if I be gone. Drink, and cheat the hand that would break the shield." A ghostly form, solemn and worn, distorted and fading, held out a shapeless hand and withdrew again to the mists.

"Noah." Yet another voice, familiar but ever so distant, reached out to him.

Faintly his heart rose.

"Let this go."

The shadows lifted and fell, his heart sighed, and he drifted away on a nameless sea.

* * *

The elderly healer, summoned from seclusion to the aftermath of victorious sorrow, came to the darkened room. He was shadowed by his young charge, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dancing light of candle-flame.

The form upon the cot appeared at once lifeless and cold. The figure beside it was dark and forbidding, masked and stoic. And yet it did not escape the old man when the gloved figure reached out to hold the still hand in a fleeting embrace.

"Rest him where he may always be at peace."

The figure rose to stand momentarily in silent vigil, and then turned and disappeared like a ghost.

* * *

The boy looked without expression on the lifeless face before him.  
He had seen death before, but his heart grieved as it ever had for one long lost to him.

Alongside the old man he secured the body and covered it like a pauper's corpse with a linen sheet. Together they wheeled the cot upon which the body lie through the side door to the Chocobo-drawn storage carriage that waited. They had driven into the darkness and out across deserted and dangerous lands, upon roads known to very few, finally arriving at their destination.

Now as he washed the body in preparation for the burial procedures, he sadly noted the deep wounds.

A scrape on his hand, earned when the carriage hit a bump, begin to sting, and he reached for the bag he'd prepared for the journey. He had hoped then that the one they were called for would yet be in need of healing care.  
He shuffled through the glass jars and herbal supplies and pulled out a salve.

"Are you finished, Faolyn?" The aged voice startled him, and the bag of supplies spilled out onto the bed and body. Nervously he scooped them up, returning them to the tote, but the damage had been done.  
One precious and pricey liquid had emptied out upon the unknowing form.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." The boy nervously reached for a cloth, scattering the bag once again, and the old man reached for his hand.

"Calm yourself," he said gently, worry upon his wrinkled brow. "Is this too much for you, young one?"  
The old man received a short negative shake of the head in reply as the boy worked to set to right the supplies.  
"Go on to bed, boy. I'll finish here. We'll lay him to rest tomorrow morning with the gentle dawn."

The boy's light eyes shadowed and he became grim, but he lost his nervousness and calmly returned the bottles, herbs, and salves to their places.  
At the doorway he stopped, looked to the body, and turned again to be followed by his shadow down the dimly lit hallway.

The old man listened to the sound of retreating footsteps and then turned to the body of the man before him.  
"Who are you?" he asked softly.

Summoned to claim the body of this unnamed soul after so many years away from that life…

Beckoned for a man who was not to be publicly mourned…would not be seemingly missed...

This one was a soldier most like, by his many scars. Perhaps he had saved a life deemed worthy or performed an act of bravery and this slight memory was counted his reward.

But why such secrecy?

The old man sighed deeply. Such intrigue and deception. Just one of the reasons he'd shunned the _graces_ of the nobles.

He moved the rag from where the boy had dabbed the spilled liquid and frowned.  
The wounds were somewhat knit...  
There was color where color should not now be...  
If he were lifeless, the potion should have no effect...

The old man bent over first the chest and then the face, intent. He left the body and turned to rummage through the bag, cabinet, and table.  
Not pleased with his find, he exited the room. After some time he returned carrying a small vial tightly in hand. He brought it before his eyes and studied it closely, and then shifted his gaze to the one before him.

"Would they deem you worth this price?" He cupped a hand behind the limp head, dripping the sparse liquid between dry, bloodied lips.

* * *

The day came quietly, long fingers of light piercing the cracks in the worn shutters, caressing the still form playfully, prying open the nodding eyes of the old man in the corner chair, and glistening off the washbasin.

The shadows of night found the scene the same but for one change; the boy sat in place of the aged man.

And so it continued, come dawn of morn and close of day, with all the rituals of care between, for three weeks full and half again the same.

"Why do you not waken?" The old man sponged wine through the parched lips as he murmured questions that received no answer. _"And what would we find if you should?"_ This he added silently as outwardly he sighed.

"I-I can take care of him...if you need to be elsewhere." Nervous and stumbling and then rushed the words came…but they came.

So seldom the boy spoke that the old man was startled. He hesitated...  
What if this man should die after all? The boy had suffered enough loss in his short time.  
Still... Yes, yes. It would be good for him to be able to help. "You know what to do."  
It was confirmation, rather than question. The boy was an apt student.

"Come quick, father Tarachande! Help us!"

The old man jumped from his bed of sleep, his heart racing, as a frantic voice shouted and footsteps raced down the hallway to his room.  
He calmed himself and draped a long robe around his shoulders just as fierce pounding threatened to splinter the door.  
"What is it?" His voice was gruff as he confronted the wide-eyed help.

Out of breath and unable to speak, the housekeeper pointed toward the invalid's room.  
Through the hallway he went, with the nervous woman on his heels, the sounds of struggle and shouting becoming ever clearer with each step.  
Irritation on his face, the old man pushed the door open and stopped in amazement.

On the bed the invalid thrashed about in an apparent state of feverish nightmares, wild and mumbling incoherently from between clenched teeth.  
Beside the bed two field hands were trying to subdue him.  
They had managed to tie his wrists to the bed posts and were trying, quite unsuccessfully, to bind his feet the same. Another stood to the side, nursing a bloodied nose.  
And in the middle of it all, the old man saw his young charge standing defiantly in resistance to the efforts of the other workers.

"Get away from him! Leave him be!" The young voice trembled not with fear but with anger.

The bloody-nosed worker seized the boy's arm and jerked him aside roughly.  
"If you don't get out of the way, boy, I'll thrash you good."

"Let him go." The old man's words were calm and quiet, but they had an immediate effect.

The workers stopped their struggle and unhanded the boy, watching warily as the old man approached.

He took in all and stood beside the bed for a moment before turning to question his charge.  
"Are you all right, Faolyn?"

"Yes." The boy lowered his eyes uncertainly.

"What is this?" the old man demanded of the workers.

Now unsure, they looked one from another, finally settling on one as their spokesman.  
"We were in the kitchen when we heard this here patient of yours start carrying on. We were scared he was gonna hurt somebody or tear up something."

"He's a danger to himself and us!" another offered

"Right, so we thought we'd best secure him before he hurt the boy!"

"Ah, yes. I can see how deep is your concern for the boy." Father Tarachande's voice was as dry as the glint in his eye was sharp, and the three shuffled uncomfortably.  
"We'll handle it from here. Good night." The finality in his words abruptly excused the hands.

The blood-nosed young man glared at the boy, and the three quit the room, perplexed and offended.

On the bed, their patient breathed heavily. Sweat dampened his hair and skin.

"...Larsa...my lord..." His words were jumbled and faded. And then suddenly he shouted, voice hoarse but words clear, "Vayne! No!"

The boy's eyes darted to the old man who stood beside the bed calmly ringing out the rag he'd dipped into the basin. Isolated they might live, but the boy listened well. Of the war and of recent upheaval in Arcades he knew enough. What did these words mean?

The old man dismissed the boy's unspoken questions. "Pay no mind to what you hear, son. The unwell will say many things."

The old man approached the bed carefully, but the patient seemed to sense his presence and began to groan and struggle as if his subconscious pulled the strings of the unconscious puppet body. Whatever his mind commanded, he could only twist and turn in his feverish state, though he succeeded in knocking the old man's arm away and the basin with it. The contents spilled across the floor in a sharp clatter.

The patient gasped and his face twisted in pain as his body heaved against his binds. A small trickle of blood escaped from a confined wrist as he pulled at the ropes.

The old man scowled as he wiped his robe dry.

"It's okay, it's okay. You're safe. It's okay."

Startled, the old man looked to the bed to see the boy quietly calming the patient, gently washing his face and smoothing back his hair with the damp rag. Almost the old man chided the child and recalled him from the bedside, wishful of ordering the lad clear of the strong legs that could kick like a beast. But the wounded man seemed comforted, stopped straining so against his bonds, and finally settled back into his rest under the boy's care.

The look on the boy's face was sorrow. "Will he die?"

Again the old man sighed. This he had feared, seeing the boy become attached.  
He carefully checked the man's vitals and watched his chest rise and fall.

Recent scars crossed old mutilations across the man's chest and back, baring witness to the harm man can do to man.  
Deep, dark bruises, red, purple, and black yet spread along the ribs the old man had bound. Whelped lines of crimson, angry still, were evidence of blows that the stoutest armor could not tame.

How many nights had he listened to the shallow breathing and felt the erratic pulse while fever raged? How many nights had he thought that the answer to the boy's dread question would be yes, and that the work of elixirs, salves, herbs, and the hours spent cleansing, repairing, and tying wounds would all come to failure. And yet...

"Slowly but surely his body mends. His mind...that is another thing. Of his heart who is to say. I believe it will depend on his will to survive, or perhaps the lack thereof, to decide his fate."  
He waved the boy away from the bed. "Come, Faolyn, let us return to our rooms and sleep tonight. We have done for him all that we can for now."

"But we must untie him!" The boy persisted. "And what of the workers? What if they come back?"

So many words from this quiet lad. The old man watched the young face. Not so young as he'd been when he'd come to this place at the tender age of eight. How many years now? Six? Yes, he had grown. Silently and alone, in this so solitary place, the uprooted and battered seedling had taken hold and survived.

"I will cut him free, but I think it best I lock him in tonight so that he might not hurt himself. I will leave word that he is not to be disturbed. They will not bother him if they wish to keep their positions, and they will be hard pressed to find better. No, I think he will be fine 'til morn."

The boy was unsure and unconvinced; it was written clearly on his serious brow, but he silently obeyed the old man's wish and went slowly up the stairs to his room.

* * *

_...And so the shadow of House Solidor had reached even here._

Long after the house fell silent, the old man paced the floor of his room wide awake and worried. What manner of man or monster had he sheltered in this once peaceful place?

_

* * *

_

At earliest morning light a familiar Chocobo squawk and persistent knock at the door signaled the birth of the day's business.

The rider, accustomed to the generosity of the house, entered to spread his wares upon the table and wait for the complimentary meal to be set before him.

The old man had seen the arrival from his window and came now down the stairs to greet the trader. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and received a nod in return from the dusty arrival, and then he turned to the goods.

Turning over the pieces of metal and stone in his hand he frowned. Broken and worn, all. None were worth much. Even the herbs were of the common sort one could pick up in the field just outside.

The tradesman noted the old man's disappointment and nodded sadly. "I am sorry, sir. The foul weather has made things difficult for our hunters. And..." The young man trailed off hesitantly.

"And?" The old man turned.

"Well...with the return of Lady Ash and the talks of peace with the Empire..."

"Yes?"

"Many are moving into the city and are taking jobs rebuilding and such. And-and some are marrying and turning to thoughts of family...some such as myself."  
The young man looked embarrassed and a bit ashamed.  
"I am sorry, father Tarachande, to leave you without a gatherer...but my fiancé wishes to return to Dalmasca, her homeland, and I wish only to be with her."  
He blushed crimson and the old man sighed heavily in exasperation, waving his hand as if he could brush away such nonsensical talk.  
"It is a time for hope, sir!" the young man insisted. "Surely you were yourself once in love?"

The old man sighed again but this time softly. "All men must be fools at least once in their lives."

The young man dropped his gaze sadly, and the old man relented. "But if one must be a fool, at least be a fool for love and a fool with hope." He smiled and held out a hand. It was eagerly grasped and heartily shaken.

The young groom-to-be sat out upon his eager chocobo with a generous bag of coins and a few choice potions to add to his hope, leaving behind the wilted herbs, broken metals, and the old man without a gatherer.

The old man watched him go morosely. Even in this disregarded place, the war had drawn many of the young men away from their homes. Still, there had always been some fledgling, too young to fight or left behind to watch over what remained of their family, willing to take up the task of bringing back the semi-rare finds that helped to make up the medicinal items for which they called upon him. …This for a pouch of Gil, of course, but with at least some moderation of success until now.

Tarachande sighed. Barely soon enough the war had ended. Much longer and who could say if the boy in his own care would have been tempted to join the conflict.

"Where is the boy?" He scraped the rubbish into a bin and rubbed his eyes tiredly. So little rest he was able to find these recent nights.

The maid's eyes turned nervously toward the invalid's room, and the old man growled.  
Of course.  
Perhaps it was time the boy took on other responsibilities.  
Perhaps it would be best for him to have something more useful on his mind.  
Perhaps...  
He entered the door and stopped short.  
The room was empty.

* * *

The tall man's eyes, set in a face like to have been carved from stone, stared joylessly into the misted half-light of morning.  
His steps were deceptively steady for one in his physical state and seemed purposeful, though they had been wandering without aim for long now.  
He was both mournful and fearsome in visage. But the young man at his side, by comparison made to seem small and frail beyond truth, was unafraid.

Almost Faolyn had to run to keep up with the long strides, but he stayed in the man's long shadow, reading quietly from the worn book in his hands.  
It seemed to him that the man was comforted by the sound of his voice though there was nothing in his expression to say he recognized the words spoken to him.

Such was the boy's concentration on both his steps and the pages that he did not see the dark viper rise from the thick weeds until it was suddenly towering over him, threatening fangs bared and dripping venom on the wilting grass at his feet.

Instinct told him to shield himself and he raised the book as a defense and a weapon, but the man at his side, wounded as he was and without armor or weapon, was at once between boy and serpent.

The viper sensed a true opponent and rose even higher, pulling itself to full height, gathering for a fatal strike. And strike it did.

The boy gasped as the man knocked him down and could only stare helplessly from the ground as the fangs blurred toward him.  
He caught his breath when the viper suddenly jerked awkwardly, held around the neck by two large fists. He watched with racing heart as the serpent went limp. A definitive slam against a boulder signaled the end, the viper dropping dead from an unforgiving hand.

Gathering the book and scrambling to his feet, the boy hurried to the man's side. He opened the pouch he carried and collected the lifeless viper within; father Tarachande could use parts in his medicinal formulas. Perhaps it would help to keep him from being overly upset...

"Are you well, my lord?"

The voice spoke so clearly that the boy stopped, startled. "Y-Yes."  
_My lord?  
_He looked up to search the man's face.

"There you are!"

"You're coming with us!"

"Father Tarachande is looking for you!"

"Put a bounty on your pretty head, he did!"

Suddenly he saw them, the field workers, trampling toward them, calling from across the meadow.

The boy felt tightness in his chest. His eyes darted like a frightened, wild thing.

He had never gotten along with the others.  
They saw him as strange, silent, and anti-social and never tired of mocking him or pointing out what they saw as his deficiencies to the old man.  
When he was near them he always felt trapped.

"Come on! We have to go!" Urgently he called to the man at his side and whirled around, running toward a secret path back to the house.

"After him!"

"Don't let him go! We'll lose the reward!"

"It's he what catches him that wins the prize!"

Faolyn felt panic rising as he heard the greed and hostility in the voices of those chasing after him. In his distress he tripped, falling hard and feeling a sharp burst of pain as his ankle twisted beneath him.

"Oh no..." He managed to get to his feet but could only awkwardly stumble on.  
The man who had protected him so quickly from the serpent now moved only slowly some steps behind as if awaiting direction.

"Fi-Finally!"

"Whoo..."

The field hands circled around, doubled over and gasping for air but pleased with their triumph. A rough hand grabbed his arm.

"Now I just have to decide how to spend that reward."

"What about _him_?" Someone asked with a nod toward the silent patient.

"Who cares. The reward isn't for him."

"Anyway, what do you mean _you _have to decide? The reward is mine. I got here first."

"But I got _him_ first!"

"I _saw_ him first, and that's what matters!"

The bickering escalated, and the workers pulled the boy back and forth between them.

"Let me go!" Faolyn grimaced in pain both from the injury to his ankle and also from the tight grip on his arms. "Please, let me go!"  
The boy wrenched free for a moment, but his ankle would not sustain his weight as he attempted to flee. He was easily overtaken and pulled back into the confines of the group.

"Listen here, boy. Don't do that again, or I'll forget what the old man said about not hurting you. Understand?"

The boy, fighting for air as anxiety threatened to overtake him, shoved at the worker and earned a heavy hand to the side of his face.

For a moment he couldn't see or hear, and then suddenly he was free and falling to the ground... Why was he free?  
On his knees, he looked up to see the tall man glaring darkly into the face of the frightened worker cowering before him.  
A short distance away another worker was bent over another who was lying unconscious on the ground.

"Please," the trembling field hand glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye, "Please don't let him hurt us. We'll leave you alone, I promise. Just-just tell him to leave us alone."  
The worker's hands were shaking in fear as he raised them in helpless defense.

The boy took in the scene, for a time seduced by his desire for vengeance and the feeling of power that his companion gave him.  
Then he recalled what the old man had once wearily told him, "Son, always remember, revenge only produces two sets of bloody hands."  
The boy sighed and the blood-lust dissipated.  
Moving to the tall man's side, he put a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Let them go. It's okay."

Slowly the worker was released and scampered to help his wounded friend, throwing hunted looks behind as they retreated.

"Thank you." Faolyn spoke hesitantly, looking into the face of the man who'd saved him twice in the span of one morning.

He felt a bond.  
Perhaps it was because this man too was different than the others.  
Perhaps because he sensed loss on the man, something he all too well understood.  
Perhaps he saw a link to a life outside this solitary place.  
Or perhaps it was that for once there was someone willing to protect him and someone for him also to protect.  
But he received no response from the man, whose glazed orbs, like a hazy gray-blue sky, seemed to look through the boy as if seeing something or someone else altogether.

Disappointment settled over Faolyn, and he slowly limped toward the house, wincing with ever footfall.  
He was surprised when a hand took his arm to support him, but he looked gratefully to the silent man at his side.

When they came through the back door and entered the dining area they found father Tarachande sitting at the table, drumming his fingers methodically on the polished wood.  
The boy nervously approached and the old man motioned with one hand toward a chair.  
Footsteps told him that his protector, for that's how he thought of this man now, stood behind.  
"So, uh, we brought you something." The boy awkwardly shoved the pack toward the old man who opened it to see the herbs, minerals, and finally the slain viper within.

"How nice," the old man remarked dryly. "My gatherer is found. Now I have only to replace my cook, housekeeper, and field hands."

Faolyn bit his lip. "Er…what do you mean?"

"They quit, of course! All of them! Taking the reward for your return with them! I was lucky to escape with only that loss, and it was no little, I assure! Who can blame them, bloodied and scared witless as they were?" The old man's voice rose in frustration.

"Were they hurt badly?" The boy felt a bit uneasy. He'd enjoyed their suffering more than he should have, but he didn't want them seriously harmed.

"Loose teeth, a broken nose, a separated shoulder, and all suffering from offended pride. Oh, they'll heal, but they'll not be back. And they'll make sure no one else wants to work here again! ...Attacked by a _madman_, is I believe how they put it." The old man glared above the boys head, and then dropped his eyes back to the boy.  
"Of course, all of this could have been avoided if you'd stayed away from him, as I specifically instructed. How do you answer this?"

Faolyn bit his lip again and looked down. "I went to, uh, check on him this morning..."

The old man raised an eyebrow.

"The door unlocked..."

"Did it?"

The boy flushed, but otherwise ignored the sardonic laugh and continued.  
"...He got up. So I, um, gave him...I gave him some of the worker's clothes that were in the wardrobe..."

The old man snorted and shook his head, and the boy shrugged nervously before becoming defensive.

"Well, we burned his. And I didn't think he should wear...you know..." The boy's eyes darted back over his shoulder, and his voice dropped.

Of course the old man knew he referred to the burial robe they'd been given to rest him in.  
Indeed, what a sight that would have been had the workers so seen him tramping around the field!

"He went outside... I-I was worried he'd hurt himself, so..." Faolyn trailed off to a mumbled whisper. "So- I went with him..."

"Worried he'd hurt _himself_." The old man muttered incredulously and then looked at the man standing like a statue behind the chair.

Short hair, so well-groomed when they'd brought him to this place, was now matted and mussed, sticking up like honey-tipped quills in places.  
The face was scruffy and deeply shadowed where it once was clean.

The worker's clothing was both too small and too large, pants legs coming only inches below the knee but gathered generously and held by a tightly cinched rope at the waist.  
The shoulders of the tunic he wore were strained while the middle hung loosely.  
And he was barefooted, for lack of fitting sandals to raid it seemed.  
Altogether he was unkempt... And more, he was dangerous, the elder feared, this wounded stray... There was something that called to mind a wolf in this man's face.

"You endangered yourself and this boy in my care with your recklessness! Not to mention you've cost me a household of servants and severely damaged my livelihood! What do you say to this?"

The eyes...blue steel…did they widen just the slightest bit? It was hard to say. Silence and a glassy stare were all the answer that was returned.

The old man frowned. It was true he felt a sense of obligation to the care of this man.  
And yet he was concerned both for the boy and for what doom this one could perhaps bring...

Too long he had clung to solitude and peace to be thrust into conflict, back into the den of vipers from which he'd made his way.  
Too much there was to lose to risk it on such a one.

"Perhaps it is best I send for someone to return you whence you came. Perhaps-"

"No! It's not his fault!" Faolyn gasped and jumped from his chair only to fall back with a groan.

The old man rose with worry and came to see the boy's bloodied knee and swollen ankle. "Faolyn, how did this happen?"

"I was trying to get away from the workers." The boy mumbled, again self-conscious.

The old man looked at his young apprentice thoughtfully.  
"And who did this?" He touched the boy's bruised face and felt him shudder slightly beneath the touch.

"I ran. I...upset them... I-I'm sorry."

Father Tarachande turned around and clasped his hands behind his back, pacing while he considered.  
Long minutes passed in silence, shadows beginning to fall through the window as evening crept upon them.  
"Did our _friend_ here hurt you in any way?" He turned sharply to the boy. "I would hear the truth from you and nothing less!"

"I _am_ telling the truth! He protected me! First from the viper and then-"

"From the viper? What-" And then the old man held up a hand, signaling an end to the discussion. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes.  
"As apparently it now falls to me to prepare our evening meal, I will take yon viper and see if I recall how to make serpent stew."

The boy grimaced, this time not at all from physical pain.

"You take our friend, if he is so willing, back to his room. Find him some more appropriate clothing. Those were clearly meant for a man of much less stature and much wider girth.  
And go wash up. We'll have to bed early tonight. Thanks in no small part to your adventure today, tomorrow will see you with many new responsibilities, my young friend.  
Rest your ankle and prepare. ...At least it seems you'll have some help in your new labor."

The old man cast a dubious glance at their silent patient and disappeared into the kitchen.

* * *

"Here." The boy entered the sickroom with an armload of clothing and towels.  
He had hurried, afraid the man would wander away while he was absent, and was surprised to see him instead sleeping soundly upon the bed as if he had never left it.  
Oh well, he would bring him some stew later...although whether or not it would be edible was in doubt.

"Basch..."

Faolyn crept closer as he heard the man whisper softly through his sleep.

"Larsa...protect lord Larsa," the injured man mumbled fitfully and then drew a breath and fell into deeper sleep.

The boy's face clouded, and acute sadness suddenly gripped him.  
Of course. The man had never truly been awake, and it had been lord Larsa he was protecting.  
A soldier's duty. Nothing more.

The boy sat the pile of clothing on the chair beside the bed and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

When the old man finished the serpent stew he was surprised to find both the patient and the boy asleep in their respective rooms.  
He pulled a soft cover over Faolyn's curled body, refilled the goblet of healant-laced wine beside their patient's bed, locked all of the outer doors-keeping the key secure on his person, and took his own bowl of stew to his quarters.  
"Yes," he thought as he sat down at his desk and gingerly swallowed a spoonful, "I will miss Cook the most."

* * *

"I am sorry to leave you behind..."

Why did those words drive rest from his nights. Why did they echo in his waking thoughts.  
Why now this strange discontentment when he'd always carried steadfastly on, done what he believed he must, as still now he must do.

Basch polished the helm carefully. His hand slowed as in the reflected gleam he saw a face both his and not his own.

The image blurred and he saw the two, young and careless in their short-lived security.  
Saw them again, separated less by the bars between them than by choices and wounded circumstances and aged less by time than by sorrow.

But ragged and worn as it had been, how was it that he had not seen that the bond had not fully torn until-

The image changed, and the face he saw was battered, lips shuddering through labored breathing, eyes clouded with grief-eyes and searching his for reassurance.

Suddenly with piercing sharpness Basch knew the answer to why this time it was different.

At last he was truly alone.


	2. Time and Place

When morning came the old man drew himself from rest with a disgruntled spirit. He saw himself facing a day of unaccustomed and tedious labor, and entered the kitchen wondering what evil dish he would be forced to mangle and disguise as breakfast. Instead he found that the boy had all but finished with what his senses told him would be a very pleasant meal indeed.  
"Ah, my lad, I see you have saved us from another day of serpent stew."

In reply Faolyn sat a full dish before him.

The old man took a bite, "If I'd known you to have such skill, I'd have let that disagreeable woman go long ago!" He laughed, but the boy only turned back to his task.

The old man watched him closely. So difficult he was to read; so guarded he was.  
"When you are done eating, I could use your help gathering a few things in the field this morning."

The boy nodded, and they passed the rest of the meal in silence.

* * *

Faolyn went to the noonday field with a worn gatherer's pouch and a conflicted spirit.  
Foolish, he knew he was, to be jealous of a stranger's allegiance.  
Why should it matter to him? Why should he think it would be otherwise? Why should he want it to be?  
He knew nothing of this man. Perhaps in truth he would not want to know him.

All of these things he had told himself when he had gone to his room the night past and again when he had awakened. His had relented from his intent to leave the patient to the healer by the time he'd made it down the stairs and had not been able to resist peaking in the doorway to watch the man's chest rise and fall in sleep.

He'd not, however, taken him food, for which he felt deeply guilty, though he'd left a heaped bowl on the table that he was sure the old man would see delivered.

What was he to do? Surely as soon as the man was well he would leave this place behind.

Strands of Faolyn's long white-blonde hair slipped the braid that pulled the front away from his face and fell over his eyes. He swept it back with one hand as with the other he dropped a small feather and a few herbs into the bag.

His keen eye caught a shimmer up toward the old caves, and he threw the strap over his head and shoulder and took to the hilly path.

It was strange up there, eerie even, but also peaceful, and the boy had wandered off to sit on the hilltops alone many nights. …That was until the one night he'd seen a large shadow flying to and fro far overhead.  
It had unsettled him so, although he'd said nothing of it to father Tarachande, and he had slipped away quickly then and not made his way back.  
Still, it was daylight now and with all the trouble he'd lately caused...well, it was best he brought back as much treasure as he could find.

The high sunlight danced off his face all but blinding him.

At the hilltop he turned and looked down at the dwelling he'd so long now known as home. It was aging, as the ivied stone showed, but larger and of a higher quality build than one would have thought to find in such a place.

His eyes turned to the lush green meadows sprinkled with the purples, yellows, and reds of flowering plants, and his gaze drifted into the darkened forests that lurked in the distance. Within the borders of those trees lay a small creek fed by underground springs. It ran briskly throughout the rain season and then hid itself for the rest.

Clouds moved overhead, stealing Faolyn from his daydreaming. He did not wish to be caught on a hilltop in a lightning storm.

Quickly he scurried, hand over heel, to the place near the cave where he'd thought to have seen a glimmer. He hoped there really was something there, or it would seem he'd just been idling.

As he neared the mouth of the cave he felt drops of rain, just enough to dampen the outer layer of his hair, begin to fall. The sky had shadowed and made his hunt more difficult, but he focused his sight and searched the rocky hillside, sweeping his hands across the earth.  
And then he found it.

Lightning tore the sky behind him just as his hand reached for the object, but he managed to pull the heavy piece, half-buried beneath rock and dirt, from the ground before the rain let loose.

Wind turned the rain to a brutal lash as it whipped across the hillside. Faolyn held his treasure to him and staggered to the cave. At least there he would be safe.

* * *

He rubbed his eyes, rubbed them again, blinking as he fought to clear the strange haze that seemed like a thick, stifling rug over him. Slivers of memory reached cold fingers through the fog. Distorted forms and shadowy faces clashed in angry tension. His head reeled.

"Ah, so you are awake. A lofty lord given to such slumber. Sit up and eat."  
The old man's voice was gruff and laced with mocking rebuke.

Unbidden, shame spread through him.

He pulled himself up slowly. Why was it that his body rebelled so against his efforts?  
His breath caught for a moment in his chest as even through the heavy medication a dull pain pulsed with every heartbeat.

"Hmph." The old man scowled and shoved a full bowl of a strange mixture of eggs, vegetables, cheeses, and potatoes toward him.

Why did his hands shake as he held the vessel?

The old man pulled back the thick curtain from the window and let in the half-light of a dreary mid-day. The soft grayness washed the patient in wan shade and betrayed dark shadows beneath the patient's eyes.

"Too much traipsing around the countryside yestermorn, I'd wager."  
Perhaps the revealing light caused the old man to repent in slight his biting scorn, for his tone had lost a bit of its chill.

The dish was good. Strange but familiar. He'd had something like it when he was a boy...

"Done then?" The old man took the empty bowl. "At least your appetite is strong."  
The old man motioned him to move to the side of the bed and brought a basket of heavy dressing.

He felt helpless as a child as his wounds were dabbed and ribs bound, but the wrinkled hands, though firm and efficient, were strangely gentle in their task.  
Dull throbbing and pulsing ache turned to sudden sharpness as the old man tested his mending back and shoulder.

The old man could not help but feel the slight twinge, but no sound escaped his patient. As always, the pain was accepted with paled lips and darkened eyes.

"Drink." The old man watched as his patient, holding the goblet with both hands, slowly consumed the soothing liquid.  
"As it seems likely you will live," the old man's voice was neutral as he received the cup again and placed it next to the pitcher, "perhaps it is time to discuss certain things."

Did the patient's breathing become more rapid? Was his face a little more tense?

"Rather than delve at once uninvited into the particulars of how or why you came to be here, or toward the mundane matters of how you intend to make payment for your upkeep, perchance it would be more prudent to start with the simpler matter of your name."

* * *

Five weeks and all but twenty years…  
He had not stopped for grief then, and he could not do so now.

He was finding that the task of protecting the young lord, even in this new peace, was a precarious one.

All in all the infant peace was popular with those in old Archades, in Nalbina, throughout Dalmasca, and upon Bhujerba. As news of Princess Ashelia's ascension spread, the spirit of the people was raised.

Diplomatic envoys surveyed damage and offered hope and promised help, and families reunited and breathed a sigh of relief that their loved one had been spared.

Even the Archadian Senate, glad to be rid of Vayne and salivating at the foothold to power that they hoped to claim now that house Solidor was weakened, was held at bay.

For now the opinion of the people became a shield. The people loved the young lord and saw him as a symbol of the new peace. Even the Senate dared not act against him. ..For now...

But one needed only an eye not blinded by celebratory joy to see that there were factions here in Archadia that resented the change that had come. These said an ill-luck wind had taken Vayne, and they mourned what they were sure would be the decline of the Empire's influence and might.

There were others scattered across all of Ivalice who had profited from the war, who still sought power, who now feared the chaos of peace that threatened the hold of tradition.

There were those who simply burned with desire of vengeance for loved ones who had not been so fortunate as to return.

All of these had reason to resist.

Yes, there was danger still.

Basch turned to the window and stared out over the tops of buildings and into the streets below.

The sound of armor and measured footsteps turned his head before the heavy door-knocker sounded.

"Lord Larsa requests the presence of Judge Magister Gabranth."

Five weeks as Gabranth...

The name now caused him only a little pain when he heard it so tossed upon the wind.  
…Now caused him only a little pause to remember that it was made his.  
No longer did he glance up with anticipation of seeing a familiar shadow or tune his ear for a certain footfall.

He had committed to his role of Guardian to Larsa as if he knew no other loyalty. He had taken up the mantle of Judge Magister with dedication. With every day he became more natural in his duties and more at home with the subtleties of his role in this politically complex land.

He was becoming accustomed to the heavy armor and the large but impersonal quarters left to him.

"Of course."  
He was almost used to hearing the voice that sounded so like another slip through his own lips.

Basch fon Ronsenberg was no more.  
Noah, if ever he had lived while he dwelt here, was dead.  
Gabranth was all that was left.

* * *

The rain swept across the fields and threw itself in giant fists-full into the cavern. The wind screamed, and the sky seemed to hurl itself to earth as Faolyn hunkered in the darkness, hugging his knees against the cold dampness and the fear that threatened his spirit.

The flashes of light revealed grime, moss, and streaks of black upon the jagged walls.

Something about this place made his skin seem to...spark. The hair on his neck and arms stood out and his heart raced.

Faolyn closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing evenly. He pulled himself inside, blocking out the raging night and the strangely disorienting atmosphere.

How this reminded him of the many times he and Naren had hidden themselves in the darkness, making the fields their bed to escape the oppressive veil that shrouded their home.

So often they had lingered in the black of night or the shimmering haze of morning, small bodies close together to block out the cold and the fear, peering down on the wildly flickering candle-flame glowing in the unshuttered windows below.

Always Naren had wished for time to pass swiftly; he'd had such plans.  
Faolyn had enjoyed listening but had not bothered with dreams of his own.  
All that had mattered to his heart was that they were together. Never alone together.  
That was so long ago now.

Faolyn bent his head to rest on his knees and closed his eyes.

Maybe he'd dozed off for a moment, carried away by memory and fatigue, but suddenly he was awake and alert; the blood was rushing through his veins like a river after the spring rains.

Above the call of the storm raging a sound not kin to the thundering sky pricked his ear, and a darkness other than the clouds chasing through the sky turned his head.  
In that instant, Faolyn was to his feet more swiftly than he'd known he could move.

Instincts he didn't realize he had called. Leaving his treasure behind, he jumped smoothly from the black mouth of the cave, body extended and arms outspread. He tucked himself to roll down the uneven surface of the hill, coming again seamlessly to his feet to race toward the safety of the sedate dwelling far below.

His long, white-blonde hair was corded by the rain and wind and cut at his skin. His ankle, better this same morning, now warned that the sudden effort was too much. The long grass slashed at his feet. Rain stung his face.

Lightning filled the sky behind him and was extinguished in a brighter flame. A strong gale beat down in the midst of the wild winds, and a large shadow blocked the bits of light among the blackened clouds.

Faolyn noticed nothing, singularly focused on the warm lights signaling safety from the tranquil windows below.

* * *

"No–..." The name leapt eagerly to his tongue and then stuck in his throat to leave his lips as a refusal.

The old man had not pushed him beyond the perceived barrier. With a cynical eye he had let it go with, "I'll let it be. For now. But know this; there will soon come a time when such an answer will not suffice."

In truth, Tarachande's mind was on other things.  
"Where is that boy? Look how the sky has broken open and no sign of the lad! Better I should have gone myself than to trust a wandering child to such responsibility."

The patient moved to the window and stood framed within as the dark sky and flashing light cast shadows around him.

_Noah...was the name fully his again? _

"Young, yes, though not so much younger than many who fought in the wars... He seems quite capable."

_...Why did he feel the need to so defend the boy?_

The old man scoffed. "War makes orphans of children and then makes warriors of orphans so that its bloody work may never end."

_Yes...so it had been for him._

Father Tarachance then looked to him pointedly, anger plainly written on his face.  
"You believe now, after so small a time, that you know the lad? What remarkable ignorance and arrogance you possess! The boy is in _my_ keep. You know nothing, and you've no right to so speak." Something cold and terrible settled in the old man's eyes.  
"I know not your place in Archades, young man, but here you may look on me as king…or emperor if you prefer it so. In the world from which you've come it may be different, but here you survive on the charity of others. Be mindful of your place."

The old man witnessed a mix of emotions playing on his patient's face.  
Embarrassment and anger…pride and shame.  
The eyes widened and then narrowed, lips parted in a silent gasp and then became a rigid line across his face. But the words were simple and muted. "I understand."

A bright flash lit the sky and cast a flickering glow into the room, turning both men's gaze to the stormy sky without.

"A sword!"

The old man's jaw was slack, and he reacted slowly to his patient's words.

"Surely you must have a sword!" Exasperation and frustration edged the hardened voice.

This time the old man awakened from his stupor, disappearing quickly from the room.  
He returned to find that his patient had hastily thrown on a set of the clothes the boy had brought and the little bits of armor the boy had found left from the workers.

The wounded man grasped the handle of the sword that was passed to him, an old but well-made and well-kept blade, and accepted with it a dagger, small but vicious in appearance.

Despite all, or perhaps because of it, the old man did not fully comprehend his patient's intent even as he made for the door. The creaking of the hinges awakened the healer from his stupor, and the old man grabbed the arm of the younger, "Wait! You are in no shape for this! What are you doing?"

His patient caught his eye for a split second before he disappeared into the raging storm, but his words, sharp and jagged as the ancient blade, carried over his shoulder into the entryway where the old man stood alone.  
"Minding my place."

* * *

Breathless and stumbling, Faolyn felt himself grow weak and his legs begin to buckle.  
And then a strong arm grasp his own, urging him forward.

"Just a few more steps! Get to the house! Stay inside!"

The words were shouted into the wind and rain and lost as he rushed by.

Somehow the boy made it through the open door to fall into father Tarachande's waiting arms.

The door slammed shut definitively, and Faolyn watched as it was also bolted, an act of fearful instinct more than reason. Then he was being wrapped in a thick blanket and examined anxiously. But Faolyn pulled away and moved toward the door.

"No!" The old man's voice was absolute.

Faolyn moved as quickly to the window as his shaking legs would allow and pressed his face to the glass. "Please, don't die..."

His defender had only one thought. The beast must not reach the house.

* * *

Fire scattered across the meadow and from it came lines of steam and smoke as the great dragon flew its uneven course.

Angry and intent to destroy, the beast uttered a frightening cry and dipped toward the figure rushing to intersect its track. The creature received a deep wound to its outstretched palm and screamed, rising instinctively to circle overhead where it would gather strength and energy before striking once more.

With the effort of wielding the sword, Noah heard the pain calling to him from his wounded body. Pain had long been a companion; he knew it well. With a deep breath he embraced its pulsing hand and struck with a wild cry.  
New, greater pain exploded 'round him, but now it fed him, carrying him. Rain coursed down his face, blurring his vision, but he was oblivious.

The Dragon heaved itself toward the earth, wings pinned back as it flew, a stream of flame pouring forth, red eyes searing.

Drunk on hurt and desperation, Noah gathered himself and vaulted into the torrent toward the rushing beast.

He called to the depths of himself for any spark of power not spent.  
Recklessly he did not ask himself the question of what would be if he had spent his last reserve and succeeded only in throwing himself to a vain death.  
In the moment he forgot that in order to protect, he must stay alive.

He'd faced such a moment before, when his spirit, tormented and torn by the constant strain of fighting against itself, had offered death the chance to claim him and relieve him of his sorrow.  
Death had rejected him then...but now?

The storm had intensified and beat mercilessly upon the field with an untamed fury as man and creature rose in a bitter dance.

Raising the sword like a shield, Noah deflected the flame and blinded the large winged beast in its dive.

Further enraged, the dragon swung its neck low, reaching for him with gaping jaws.

As he put his full weight and strength behind the dagger and stabbed between heavy metal plates low on the Dragon's neck, razor-like teeth chomped at the air. In one pass the thin armor on his shoulder was torn from him as the dragon screamed, more from rage than pain, and spun violently, trying to shake this parasite free.

Noah clung to the beast, wedging the blade deeper into the crevice between scales and using the creature's momentum to swing himself high, landing in a strong arch on a powerful wing. By one hand he kept to this hold as with the other he pulled the sword back. With a roar that was answered by the beast and the roll of thunder, he struck.

As the dragon charged to the ground, shredding the earth beneath harsh talons and rising again to beat the clouds back with its wings, Faolyn stared, mesmerized.

The battle lit the rain with fire and cast a shimmering, beaded veil of iridescence. The sky, already bruised by strange casts of sickened green and darkened blue, was smeared with blood-like flame.

Amid all, his form was a haze of motion in the surreal scene, rising, whirling, and slashing in unbound fury and steeled determination.

Faolyn watched as his protector paused and gathered strength; his blade seeming to light in the play of shadow and fire. And then he unleashed a mighty blow upon the great creature.

For a moment all seemed to hang suspended until suddenly the beast was falling...and with him so the one who'd cast him down.

The dragon landed on its side, wings flailing, limbs struggling, breath spinning swirls of sparks into the air, and then lay still.

But where...

Before the old man could stop him, Faolyn had reached the door and torn it open to rush into the rain of ash.  
The boy did not hear the anxious call from the open door; too focused he was on searching for his protector.  
For a frantic moment he could see no sign, and then he saw him struggling to his hands and knees, covered in mud and soot and...and blood.

Faolyn ignored the soot that fell on his face and ran through the mud to his protector's side. Fear shot through him as he saw the crimson stained hair and face and back and hands of the warrior.  
"Here." He put a hand on the man's shoulder and offered a hand to help him up. At the blank stare he received in return, Faolyn urgently offered once more, "I can help you! We have to get inside!"

The man seemed slightly troubled, as if caught in the unsettling bridge between dream and the waking place. He at first ignored the hand that was outstretched and pulled himself to his knees, turning his face, blacked with ash and streaked with blood, to the streaming sky.  
Faolyn's hand began to waver, and then the man reached out to grasp the young hand in his large one, rising to his feet.  
Although he seemed uncomfortable at first, he allowed Faolyn to support him by acting as a crutch beneath his arm. Still, Faolyn, wiser than his years, sensed that the man held back his weight from falling on him and allowed the illusion of his helping to carry the burden.

At the doorway father Tarachande stood sternly silent, watching until they reached the entrance. He stood blocking the way for a moment, with a dark look in his eyes for both boy and man, before allowing them passage.

Faolyn moved toward the room reserved for their guest. His intent was to help, but the old man stopped him harshly. "Go to your room." The deep, elderly voice was cold and his brow stone.

Faolyn's light eyes were flooded with pain. "Please, I want to-"

"Go-to-your-room." Deliberate and unyielding the old man repeated the command without understanding or mercy.

"No." The boy's jaw was set; his gaze was direct. He was resolved.

Never had Faolyn refused an order given.

"You will go, or I will take you." The old man spoke sharply from affronted pride.

"You-you cannot make me stay there!" The boys voice trembled, and his fists were clenched.

"I can and will, even if I have to lock you in! You will not defy me!" The old voice was low and gruff.

"No! Please! I-"

"Do as he says, young one."

Both old man and boy were startled by the quiet words, but neither was pleased.

Faolyn's eyes registered sharply the hurt he felt, and his face paled further before flushing brightly as if he'd been brutally struck. He stood disbelieving for a moment and then dropped his gaze in shame.  
Without a word he turned and disappeared up the stairs to his room.

* * *

They heard his steps, but neither pair of eyes followed him as he left.  
The old man glowered at his patient. The man never raised his eyes from the bed he now sat upon even as they heard the door above them softly shut.

"Let's see what you've done to yourself." The old man's tone was icy, but he moved to the cart of healants.

"I'm fine." The voice was level and cool, and his breathing was measured.

"Really? I have a doubt, though rash as you have been what pains you bring upon yourself have been justly earned."

At this his patient's eyes sparked, and he lifted his head to meet the old man's gaze.  
"So, you would allow your home to burn to the ground? And offer yourself and the boy as food for the beast? _This_ is what you would call _wisdom_?"

At the sarcasm and contempt in the words, the old man slammed his hand upon the cart to the clatter of glass and metal as bottles scattered.  
"Silence!" The old man's hands shook with irrational anger. "You are naught but trouble! It is no wonder to me that you have been cast off by friend and society. Ash in the wind!"  
As he spoke he unsteadily sat each vial upright and rewound the binding that had unrolled.  
"Perhaps you will be fine. And if not," he swept his hand at the air and turned to go, "let fate have you. I am through."


	3. Left Behind

In the lonely silence that followed after the old man had quit the room, the picture of Faolyn's eyes, shot through with betrayal and abandonment, fell heavy before Noah.  
He felt a rib shift and groaned as he moved to ease it back into place and welcomed the pain that turned him from the vision.  
The old man's words gnawed at him, bringing shadowy memories not fully explored. Rightly father Tarachande had said there had been no one come. What did it mean?

Most of the blood upon him had belonged to the beast, but not all.  
One fang had raked his shoulder in removing the armor, a fresh river of blood lay in a newly carved bed of flesh as proof, and though he'd managed to avoid the worst by using the sword as a buffer, the force of the wing had bruised his already battered side. And all over his skin were small cuts and burns.  
But he could take care of himself, as long he had.

He'd been wounded before... Yes- many times.  
But when had he been so weak as these days? Though he'd tried to push it aside, even as he fought the dragon he had felt it, the draining fatigue that sapped his strength.  
Still, there was a restlessness within that would not allow repose.

He groaned softly as he stood, head swimming with each step. Undeterred, he pressed a hand to his pained side, gathered himself, and opened the door to step once more into the rain.

* * *

Faolyn shut the door to his room and locked it behind, blinking away the dampness that stung his eyes.

From the window's small opening shadows were cast as clouds moved and rain fell across the evening sky.

With shaking hands he pulled the wooden chest from beneath his bed.  
Taking the key from the leather cord at his neck, Faolyn fumbled with the lock and raised the lid to remove a worn sketchbook and a broken piece of charcoal from within.  
He returned the corded key to his neck and hid it within his shirt, took a blanket made of patches from old clothes from the bed, and retreated to the far corner of the room.

One by one he turned the pages, his eyes tracing the lines his own hand had drawn. Each face, each scene, a memory.

He turned to a clean page and ran his hand over the parchment seeing what would be, and then the charcoal began to follow his lead, telling, in dramatic strokes, the story of the dragon.  
When this project was complete he turned to yet another page and began slowly to outline the planes of a face. Softly he marked in the shadows and lines and subtleties of the ears, the nose, the lips, and strongly swept the lines of the jaw, cheekbones, and brows. With the eyes he took great care, blending and shaping until they seemed alive.

The shadows beyond the walls had deepened, though the rain had ceased, by the time Faolyn finished.

He started to close the book and then went to a well-worn page slowly. His eyes fell on the face of a young boy with smiling lips and sparkling eyes. Even cast in shades of gray he appeared bright and full of life. Traces of a smile flittered across Faolyn's face and then disappeared into sorrow.  
He brought the page to his chest, and the tears he'd denied now came silently, like the sobs that racked his frame.

* * *

From a high window, weathered eyes followed the figure prowling the destructed landscape below, watching as he gathered the bloody tools of battle and began the task of reaping the spoils.

There was no rest in the old man's heart tonight.

He was not ungrateful to the man who had saved child from beast.

And yet in a choice between the fallen creature and the surviving warrior which was truly the more dangerous to house and home?

The elder considered how the stranger had moved in the heat of battle. The skills displayed this night, even in such a wounded state, were not those of the average enlisted man.

Father Tarachande turned from the window.  
Could this man have been a spy? An enemy of the Empire? Did delicate diplomacy dictate the shrouded circumstances that brought him here?  
What scheme, what power struggle had this man's survival brought them into?

The sound of the door opening and shutting once more and the tread of steps below him broke the old man from his speculation.

He sighed.  
It would hurt the boy, and he hated to see it.  
But better the boy hurt a little now than be destroyed later.  
He'd not stand aside to see such a thing happen...again.  
No. It was time.

* * *

"My lord?"

Larsa turned his eyes from staring through the open window of his cavernous library, blinking away troubled thoughts, and smiled as he saw the familiar form stride through the parting doors and move toward him.  
He felt so small these days and yet at the same time so much older, as if he'd aged a decade in the last months.  
It was a comfort to have a friend to rely upon. One to see him through these difficult times.

"Thank you for coming, Gabranth." He smiled and his guardian bowed his head briefly and moved to kneel, but Larsa lifted his hand to the place next to him.  
"Sit with me a moment, will you?"

"Yes, my lord. As you wish."

There was yet some awkwardness between them but a growing affection as well.

Larsa watched as the ornate helm was removed, and a twinge of emotion swept over him as he saw the sharper features, the hair more gold than sand, and the scarred brow.  
So alike and yet so different. Like these times.

The Gabranth who once was had ever been a faithful protector, unfailingly loyal, always somewhere in the shadows ready to pull him from harm, as he had that fateful day in Bur-Omisace.  
Always ready to become the shield to take the blow in his place, as...as he had at the end...

But it had not been that Gabranth's place to sit beside him as a companion, offer advice as a friend, or lend an ear in confidence. It had been his to come and to wait, to go and to do, as always he had.

Without his sacrifice they might well not have reached this day.  
Without his protection Ivalice might have seen this day dawn without Larsa Solidor.

He would not be forgotten; Larsa promised himself that.  
And yet these days the young leader needed less a sword and shield than a shoulder to lean upon and an ear to listen. He needed less of the warrior and more of the guide.

Basch's serious blue eyes were upon him. "Are you well, Larsa?" Concern could not be hidden in his tone.

_Larsa..._

Inwardly the young lord smiled.  
Yes, this new Gabranth kept a different place than the last.  
"Yes, I am well. ...Just...remembering."

Basch's eyes darkened and he looked briefly down. "Yes."

"I found this among my brother's things."  
The sadness in the young voice touched his guardian's heart.

Larsa transferred a large scroll into Basch's hands.  
"I thought you might like to have it."

Basch released the tasseled golden cord that bound the thick bundle, and the pages at once unwound. Beautifully gilded leaves nestled comfortably together.  
Velvet-like, transparent sheets of the highest quality, each with their own meticulously depicted country or river or vein, layered themselves atop the main. This was itself a richly detailed landscape of Ivalice, creating at last an extraordinarily complete picture of the land, past and present.  
And there, nestled in the heart of Ivalice was the country of his birth, the Republic of Landis.

He ran his rough fingertips over the soft page and the ornate binding, and found a lever. Curious, he flipped it and before his eyes Landis disappeared from the map.  
For a moment he did not breathe, as violent memories sped before his eyes. He saw the burning fields and heard the cries of anger and fear.

"Quite intricately made, is it not? All by an artist's hand, as I understand it."  
Larsa reached over Basch's hand and pushed the lever back to its original position, and Landis was returned to the whole once again.

Basch cleared his throat, "Surely this is of great value to you."

Larsa placed his soft, smaller hand over Basch's large, calloused one. "I wish you to have it, my friend."

They would not discuss that it had been Larsa's father who had invaded and overtaken Basch's homeland and torn his family apart, nor the ironies that a long-time member of the Resistance now occupied a place of power in the very Empire he'd fought so long against.

It was a new day.

* * *

Noah finished polishing the weaponry and armor and stored the large dragon-scales and assorted spoils, things he was sure the boy would call treasure, and made his way to the small adjoining washroom.  
He would show Faolyn on the morrow. Surely the fear that had driven the old man to anger would have melted to relief in the boy's safety by then.

Inside the washroom Noah undressed, unbound the now soiled bandages, and stepped down onto the stone slab, pulling a tarnished silver lever to release a stream of warm water upon the cuts and deep bruises along his aching back. He winced as the droplets pelted his wounds, and watched as the water swirled in a red mix through the drainage hole.  
Tiredness overtook him, and he lay his head against the steaming stone wall, closing his eyes for just a moment.

...How long had he slept there?  
All he knew was that he awakened in the act of falling, reaching instinctively to catch himself as he slipped to the hard floor.  
His shoulder pained sharply but held, and he returned to his feet to finish the task of cleansing away the grime and blood.

He flipped down the lever so that the water slowed to a trickle and then stopped and stepped from the wash area to dry himself with a large cloth.

Where the boy had gotten the sets of clothing from Noah did not know. They smelled a bit musty as if they'd been locked away for years, but they were of high quality materials, almost like those made for the elite of the Empire.

The pants were a bit short in the legs, but with the dagger he released the hem and found the difference adequate, helped by the fact that the waistline was yet a little large and settled low on his now even leaner frame.

Back in his room, he set aside the shirt and began trying to treat his own wounds, dabbing salve on the singed skin and into fresh cuts.  
Binding his own ribs, he held down the loose piece of cloth with one hand while with the other he wrapped, at times holding the cloth between his teeth as he tightened and moved the binding.

"Move your hand." The gruff order startled the patient, who was busy concentrating on remaining conscious as he pulled the cloth around his ribs.  
The old man, without any pretense of gentleness, took the binding from him, finishing the task with such abruptness that his patient silently grasped the table with both hands, _enduring_ this unsolicited help.  
When he was done the old man turned and walked to the window. "I thank you for saving the boy's life."

Noah nodded and struggled to ease his shirt on. It pulled snug across shoulders that had retained muscular definition. He watched the old man, waiting for the _more_ he sensed.

"You may not agree with the decisions I make on his behalf,"

Noah lifted his eyes and lowered them, thankful for the buttons that distracted his suddenly unsteady hands. "It is not my place to...judge." The word stuck in his throat.

"No. It is not." The old man returned with a piercing directness. "The boy is fragile. I must make the decisions _I _deem best for his care."

"Perhaps not so fragile as-"

"You know nothing! Why do you speak of that which you do not know?" The gruff voice was raised in anger, and Noah discontinued his offering, pressing his unoccupied fingertips together before him.

The old man inhaled and clasped his hands behind his back, silently pacing. When he stopped, he turned again to his patient with calmness in his features and determination in his eyes.  
"Regardless of any other opinion, the burden of his care is mine alone. _Alone_, you understand."

Noah felt the old man's eyes burning but kept his own eyes turned away.

"It is for this reason I have made a difficult decision."

Now Noah felt a different heaviness on his chest that made it hard to breathe and the tightness of a clenched fist in his stomach.

"I wish you to be gone before the morning. Where you go I care not. Only that you do not return. I have prepared for you supplies, medicines, foodstuffs, which you may take with you. The weapons and armor you have found useful are yours. I have also included what I believe you will see as a generous amount of Gil. These things will surely repay-"

For how long the old man talked Noah did not know, nor what else he had to say. Echoing through his head, through his chest, through his heart, were the words, _"I wish you to be gone."_

"I must say goodbye."

The voice was husky. The eyes...were they bright with dampness, or was it merely an illusion?  
The old man felt a stab of guilt.

"No. I will not make this harder for the boy than it must be." Guilt or no, the old man would not relent.

"If you wish to spare him, you must let me talk with him. He must understand-"

Was that a shade of pleading?

"He _will_ understand. I will explain to him what he needs to know."

Noah winced and shook his head, "No, it must be-"

"Enough! You will not interfere with my will. Keep your place!"

Noah's jaw hardened, and his eyes turned to stone. He rose with no indication of the agonizing pain he felt.  
With swift and angry movements he finished dressing, applied the mismatched armor, strapped on the sword and dagger, and took up the satchels the old man had placed beside the door.

The old man took a step backward as he noted the change in the younger man. There was a barely tamed violence in his manner, a bitter vengeance in his eyes, the prowling of a wild thing in his step.  
This was no longer the pale, wounded man he'd been coaxing from beyond the brink of death. Anger had changed him into something primal and fierce.

The younger man walked around him slowly with eyes staring coldly from beneath a lowered brow.  
A hand upon the door, the stranger bowed, his half-closed eyes glittering with embers of wrath.  
As the door opened, his parting words were tossed like shards of glass to the old man's ears.  
"As you wish, _my lord_."

In one powerful movement he turned and pulled the door shut behind him. The window shook with impact of the closing. He was gone.

* * *

Laying rocks to secure a cloth-wrapped package beside a slab lying skewed at the entrance, Noah took out his dagger and scratched into the stony floor of the cave, "To Faolyn."  
He stared grimly into the night back toward the home below and then etched another line, put the dagger away, and slowly disappeared behind the hill and into the trees.

* * *

The long day past, Basch towel-dried his cropped blonde hair and wrapped his body in a luxurious robe.  
Most nights, like this one, he dined with Larsa, whether just the two of them in the young lord's quarters or at his right hand among Senators, Diplomats, Generals, Judges, and others of their political ilk.  
Duty did not afford him to slake selfish desires, and his growing bond with Larsa made duty lighter to bear, yet there were times he wished less for the several course meals than for perhaps a warm bowl of soup and a crust of bread...like the meals he'd enjoyed as a boy...

Absentmindedly he traced and retraced the borders of Landis on the opened map upon his desk.  
How long it had been since he stepped from the borders of his homeland to join with others who sought to oppose the invading powers.  
When he'd made his choice, when he'd closed the door of the only home he'd known and alone slipped away that fateful night, he'd shut a door within himself also, and sealed it well so that he would not regret...so that he would not look back.

His finger traced a small line that marked a riverbed along the eastern corner of Landis, and his lips turned gently toward a smile.

"_Hey, Basch!" _

_The warning came even as the freezing cold water splashed over his naked shoulders, and he laughed at the unexpected chill.  
Whirling around he brought his hands from deep in the water, returning the spray._

"_Watch it, brother!" _

_Laughter was returned to him, and eyes shining through streams of dripping water met his. _

_They grappled each other into the water and bobbed up again, gasping for air, more out of breath from their fit of chuckles than the physical play._

"_Boys! Come on in now!" _

_Faintly they heard their father's deep voice call for them, and both sighed, losing their laughter as their fun came to an end. _

_Noah hit the water with his hand, casting a shimmer of mist through the air, and shrugged, smiling through his disappointment._

"_Race you back?"_

_Basch accepted the offer with a grin, a nod, and a running head-start from the water's edge._

"_Hey!"_

_He heard his brother's indignant call and threw back over his shoulder, "So, hurry up!"_

_Basch raced through the meadow as fast as his ten year old legs would take him, tangled mop of blonde hair flying, shimmied over the gate, and burst through the doorway and into the entry hall of the modest Fon Ronsenberg Estate as if his feet were on fire. _

"_What on earth— ?" _

_His father came from the hallway, wiping his hands on a cloth, already in his dinner clothes._

"_Basch. Look at you, son. You're a fine mess. And you've tracked dirt onto the floor. You'll clean up your mess, and yourself, and be ready for dinner. Yes?"_

_The words were gently enough delivered, but the firm rebuke was clear in the serious eyes. Basch swallowed and lowered his head. "Yes, sir."_

_His father handed him the towel, and nodded before turning away._

_Basch heard his brother's footsteps approach even as his father's receded but didn't look up as he washed the floor on his hands and knees. _

_The pain of duty and embarrassment kept his eyes on his task until his brother knelt beside him. _

"_What are you doing?" Basch asked, genuinely confused, watching Noah take a cloth and scrub at the muddy footprints. "It isn't your mess." _

_Noah grinned up at him knowingly. "But we both know it would have been."  
And then he winked and went back to rubbing out the stains._

Basch caught his breath, smoothed the page carefully, and hid the outlines of the country with his hand, as if to force himself from the memory of it.

There had been reasons, he reminded himself, that he had not looked back, and it had seen him through all these years.  
Larsa needed him to be strong.  
He took a drink from the bottle of wine on the desk and counted beats to steady his pulsing heart.

Firmly he returned the scroll to its binds and set it gently toward the back of the highest bookshelf where it could remain safe but unseen.

Some things were better left behind.


	4. Wander to Wonder

Even sooner than Noah had predicted in his own mind, the old man's anger faded.  
As with a touch of sadness he found the treasure his patient had left behind and calculated it to be a worthy amount, he sighed, "I hope the boy is the okay." With the words, to his mind two faces came.

Tarachande comforted himself that he had put a generous number of potions and such things in the stranger's satchel to treat his current wounds and any others that might be caused by fresh battle.  
And there was a town not so very far away.  
One as resourceful as this would surely find lodging and make do.

It was...unfortunate that such a conflict had found need to arise so quickly. The young man had needed further rest, and the elder was not without compassion for his patient's suffering.

But the boy came first.  
He must.

The old man sighed. He would make the boy breakfast and try to find a gentle way to explain their patient's absence.

Tarachande reached for the knob that would trigger the illumination of the dining hall and stopped as he saw two iridescent orbs, like twin lights in the darkness.

"Where is he?"

The old man steadied his shaking hand and let the knob roll, casting a warm light around the room and extinguishing the soft glow.  
The boy seemed paler than norm; his lips were slightly blued and his skin was almost translucent.

"Are you okay, boy?" The old man placed a hand marred by age spots and wrinkles upon the young shoulder and felt the tension in his muscles.

"Where is he?"

The old man could feel Faolyn's breathing rate increase and felt his shoulders rise and fall. His pupils were dilated; his eyes were bright.

"Sit down, Faolyn."  
The old man turned to the table, pulling a chair out for the boy and then taking it himself when the boy would not move.  
"You've been with me many years now, is that not so?"  
No answer. He was not surprised.  
"And I've always done my best to protect you, to give you safe shelter, to teach you a trade by which you might make your way."  
The boy's eyes did not move. His expression was unchanged. His form was as stone.  
"I must do as I believe is right for your care. I must not allow any danger to come to you if it is in my power to change the fates. I have done– "

"You have sent him away!" The words were spat out, almost inaudible, through teeth clenched behind lips that were increasingly blued.

"He is not an innocent, Faolyn. He is a dangerous man from dangerous times. There is no tell what that man has done or the nature of the enemies he has made. I cannot risk– "

"You-" Faolyn's fists were clinched. His rage was barely controlled now. "You fear for yourself and not for me!"

"You have no right to speak to me in that manner! If I cared so little for you and your well-being would I not have turned you away all those years past?  
Would I now sacrifice my own peace of mind to argue with a stubborn man-child over things of which he knows naught!"

There was a change in the air. The light flickered and all but went out and then suddenly glowed even brighter.

Faolyn's voice was full of pulsing breath, "You need me. That is why you took me."

"I did not _take_ you, son." The old man slowly stood, his voice becoming soft and soothing, his manner calm and reassuring. He watched the boy carefully.

Faolyn took a step forward, his eyes sparking even in the glow of the light.  
"I came here not of _my_ will and do-not-belong-to-YOU!"

Fear took the old man, and, concerned, he reached an aged hand toward the boy. His hand was seized in a grip the old man could not escape.

"You cannot keep me. I will not stay!"  
The lights flashed brighter still.  
The boy thrust the old man back from him, into the chair, moving toward the door with fluid reflexes.

"If you leave my house, you will never know where Naren lies. This I promise you."

The words were soft, almost a whisper, but Faolyn at once stopped mid-step, flinching as if hit viciously in the chest by a massive blow. Shock registered upon his young face.  
He was at once three shade's the paler, deflated, with fear written in every part of his expression and manner.

The old man saw the change and continued quietly.  
"You will obey me, and accept my will in this matter as in all else, if ever you wish to know the truth of your family and of your brother's demise."

The boy's hands were limp at his side. The lights flickered and dimmed, casting a shadow over the room, and still the old man persisted.  
"There is none other to guide you. None other who would take you in for safe keeping. None other who knows the truth. Mind it well. If you leave this place, you lose all."

Faolyn backed from the room, shaking terribly, barely able to stumble up the stairs and into his room. The old man shuddered along with the shutting door.

Guilt flooded him as he followed the boy's path up the stairs. Words he'd heard so long before, words he'd rejected then, echoed in his mind,  
_"You must rule him with fear, or he will destroy you."_

Before his eyes came the reflection of a face familiar to his heart. That of a young boy with dark hair and spirited eyes.  
If he had heeded the advice then would that one he'd so loved have met a different fate?  
He'd not lose another to his own failure.

Resolved, Tarachande took the key and turned it in the lock, securing Faolyn inside the small room.

* * *

Noah awakened with his aching back curved into a hollowed out riverbank, his face dewy with the spray off the low water.

He'd walked through the night until he could go no further, pain and fatigue screaming with every step for relief, and then had fallen asleep to the sounds of creatures on the water and the singing of the wind through the trees.  
Thoughts of Faolyn had plagued his dreams. How he wished he could have talked with the boy. It was a cruel fate to to be left behind to wonder.

He tried not to think of what it might have been like to have a child. The life he'd made his had not been one meant for family.  
Still _if_ all those years before...if he had married, fathered a child...maybe he would now have a son...like Faolyn.

It was useless to think such things now. There were too many secrets to be kept. Too much blood on his hands. Too much shame that was his alone to bear.  
Perhaps the old man was right, and the boy would be better off without him. …He hoped so.

Noah made his way up a nearby hill where he could observe the surroundings. There was a town near the river, but he would not lightly enter populated areas.  
Though he was unsure of his own visage at this time, and few were those who'd ever seen Judge Magister Gabranth without his helm, he could not risk compromising either Larsa or Basch in the off chance of being recognized.  
He must be inconspicuous, remain obscure, bring no attention to himself...until he knew with certainty what was expected of him...Until he was told his fate.

Did they know he lived? Surely so…  
Yet the old man had implied not. Had implied, in fact, that they thought him buried.

To the shadowed questions in his mind he answered that he could not have expected Basch to have visited his grave.  
His brother had found no cause to mark the resting place of a so beloved mother. Certainly there would be no reason to mark his. ...Assuming Basch lived.

Panic suddenly struck him.  
He'd slowly regained most pieces of the puzzle from before what he'd thought was to be his death. But what had happened after he'd lost consciousness? What if—

His eyes focused on a tavern at the corner of town.

Enough questions. This he would know.

* * *

Father Tarachande berated himself with blame.  
Why had he not at once sent the message that the man lived?  
Why had he allowed the boy to grow to care for the patient?  
Had he not known all along that the man could be a danger, could be a threat, could in fact be recalled to duty, if indeed in service of the Emperor, or to death, if in fact an enemy of the Empire?  
This terrible situation was his own creation. There was no other responsible.

And yet even still he'd not sent the message. He simply could not.

He turned the key and rapped at the door. "Boy? I have a bit of food for you here." There was no response.  
Worry took him, and he quickly turned the knob. He half expected the boy to have somehow slipped out the small, high window and found a way down from his second story room.  
But there he was, abed.

"Faolyn, I've brought you supper, boy. Come now and eat." No answer. The boy continued to lie still.  
Fear gripped the old man, and he put out a hand to check for a pulse. It was there and steady. The boy's skin was cool to the touch.  
"Faolyn..." The old man's brow wrinkled with concern. "Wake up, boy!" He shook the lean shoulder, softly at first and then harder and harder still.  
When panic had fully flooded the old man's veins, Faolyn's eyes at last opened, pale in the half-lit room, and settled unfocused in father Tarachande's direction.  
"Thank you, thank you..." The old man breathed a prayer and patted the young shoulder gently. "Sit up and eat, will you, lad? I didn't spend my evening slaving over this meal to see it wasted."

Wordlessly Faolyn sat up with his back to the wall and folded his legs upon the mattress. He accepted the plate of food almost mechanically.  
He ate slowly and silently, but he ate. And then he drank down the goblet of berry juice held out to him.

Father Tarachande watched him closely throughout the meal. The boy went through all the motions and functions of partaking but seemed hardly aware.  
When the old man asked if he wanted more the boy didn't seem to hear, and when the old man put a hand under the thin chin to turn the pale eyes, repeating the question, the eyes only stared blankly into his.

"I'll be back in a moment, all right? Stay right there, boy."  
The old man took the tray of dishes back down the stairwell with shaking hands and collected a bottle of medicines before returning.

The boy was gone.

Tarachande dropped the bottle onto the bed and ran, almost falling, down the stairs with the boys name on his lips. "Faolyn! Faolyn! Fa– "

The boy stood in the open door, staring blankly into the evening sun, but he had not left the house.

"Faolyn," The old man's voice lowered, and his gait slowed. "Come back in, boy. The day is past."  
There was something in the boy's face that caught the old man by the heart and brought thickness to his voice. "Do as I ask, and I will not long keep you from the sun. We will go out together on the morrow. Would this please you?"

The boy simply stared on into the smear of color across the sky as if he, though in body present, had flown far away.

"Come boy." The old man, trembling a little, guided the boy from the doorway, shutting the door behind them.

The longing that had for a small time shown through in the boys face was lost in the shadows that fell with the banishing of the sun, and the old man easily directed him up the stairs and into his room where Faolyn sat upon the bed, motionless as the piece of furniture that held him.

"Let me get a cloth for your forehead," the old man suggested, looking for an excuse to stay close to his young charge awhile longer.  
He paused, conflicted, but turned the key to secure the door and then quickly slipped down the stairs once more.

Returning directly with a cool cloth and a warm cup of milk, he found the boy curled up on the bed. The old man sighed and reached out to press the pale, thin hand. "I'm sorry, boy."  
Light lashes parted and soft eyes peered from between, startling the old man who'd thought him asleep. The old man patted his hand.  
"I know this has been a difficult time for you, and I regret it. Only trust me." The pale eyes were once more hidden, and the boy's breathing became steady in sleep once more.

The old man pulled a thin blanket over the boy's form, smoothed back his hair with the damp cloth, and turned to go out the door.  
His eyes fell upon the worn, leather-bound book, and, curious, he lifted it, turning from page to page.  
For long moments he stood there staring past the beautifully rendered images, lost in thought. Then, carefully, he shut the book and placed it gently back where it had been found before leaving the room and turning the key one more time.

* * *

Before he walked into the small town, if even a town it could be called, Noah bought a long, well-worn, hooded cloak from the back of a nomadic merchant he'd seen outside the limits. When he entered the establishment and made his way to a small table, all that could be made out was a glimpse of a shadowed face peering from within.

He listened carefully to all that was said around him, tuning his ears to any mention of Archadia, but most people were busy talking about preparations for a festival.

"Hey, friend, Zol join ya?" Without waiting for agreement, the large Seeq pulled out a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh.  
"Zol say, long day, long night, eh?" He mopped his brow with a napkin and laughed heartily, his naked belly shaking.

The smile that touched Noah's lips didn't reach his guarded eyes. Perhaps this could be useful.

A pitcher of Ale and an hour of disjointed ranting on oppressive bosses, demanding wives, and wayward children later, and Noah casually inserted, "At least the war is over, yes?"

The big Seeq's face sobered, and Noah turned his attention to his mug, careful not to make eye contact with his drinking partner, waiting.

"Yeah." The Seeq finally answered, setting his mug down on the table and leaning back.. "Should've happened long time ago. But Humes don't care what Seeq says."  
And then he looked worried. "Nothin' personal, friend. Zol no troublemaker, really!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "...Don't wanna end up in no dungeon. Lost a good friend that way."

"Don't worry," Noah assured him softly, "I won't give you away."  
Sadness filled him as he thought of all the political prisoners he'd seen taken, had played a part in taking, for the sake of the Empire and her secrets.  
He had tried, he defended against himself, to ensure the information he followed in detaining enemies of the Empire was based in fact, had not simply vanished his own enemies or made the law a tool to oppress a certain race as he'd seen some others do.  
To his mind leapt Bergan's face, and anger welled up inside of him, darkening his eyes and turning them to steel. A bigot and a bloody butcher, who'd have eaten his own young to empower himself.

But then the scale of his own judgment turned against him, and his eyes lost their spark.  
He could defend himself by comparison, perhaps, but it had been his own task to gather information on those loyal to and active with the Resistance.  
It had been his role to trace and contain threats against the Empire.  
As such, how many whose only crime was loyalty had disappeared behind cold walls, stolen from their lives and loved ones...for the sake of Necessity?  
How many did not survive to return...

He had done what he had done for the sake of the security of the Empire…for Larsa…for the sake of his own debt…

Her paled face, tired eyes, and weakened smile floated before his eyes in the reflection of his drink.

"_She was right to direct you to me, lad. Whatever can be done for her sake, I will see to." _

"_I will repay-" _

"_Yes, yes. Time for that later. For now, let us see to her care." _

So long ago…

"Thanks, friend!" The Seeq smiled openly and filled his mug once more. "Maybe it will be better now with the Lady in Dalmasca and the boy in Archadia."

"Larsa Solidor?"

"Yeah! That's right, friend! Larsley Salsidor."

Noah didn't bother correcting the Seeq. He only breathed a deep sigh of relief. Larsa was well. Thank heaven.  
"He's intelligent and kind and cares deeply for Ivalice. Archadia will do well with him, I believe." Noah offered quietly.  
Of Dalmasca he was silent; it was not his place.

The Seeq nodded. "Puny, little Hume looks like suckling in viper's den, though." The big Seeq shuddered and then shrugged.  
"But Zol hears little Hume goes nowhere these days without that Judge, Galbrand...Gardeath... " He shrugged again, "All Judges look the same. Scary."  
He took a long swig and plunked the mug down, patting his belly happily. Only then did he notice his new friend's head was bowed. "You okay, friend?"

So Basch also survived. Noah was more thankful than he'd known possible and not for Larsa's sake alone.  
He coughed to hide his emotion, "I am thankful the fighting's past. Ivalice has lost too many of her children."  
It was true. He was thankful for an end to the fighting and death.  
Faces swam before his eyes.  
Faces of those killed in battle, both at his side and at the end of his sword.  
Every soul someone's son, father, sister, brother, friend.

"Yeah." The Seeq was silent and sad for a moment and then recovered, slapped his new friend's arm with his meaty hand.  
"Take care, eh, friend? Gotta get home to beautiful wife. Maybe I see you here again? Not all Humes talk to Seeq. Zol like the company."

The Seeq began to take out Gil for his drinks, but Noah waved him away. "I got it. Have a good night. You and your family."

The Seeq was touched and offered his hand and then became suddenly thoughtful, "You know, Zol never ask what side friend was on."

Noah's smile was more of melancholy than humor. "Maybe it's better not to know."

The Seeq nodded slowly, smiled, and nodded again, "Yeah. Maybe right, friend. Maybe right."

Noah watched him plod to the door and disappear.  
Laying money on the table for their tab, he had started to follow the Seeq's path toward the door when suddenly his eye caught a bill pinioned to the pegboard on the wall.

"Wanted: A brave soul to catch a Chocobo thief. Reward: 3,000 Gil + an Ancient Blade, if you finish this quest Before the Festival! See the Chocobo Wrangler outside town for details."

Noah scratched his heavily stubbled chin. The description of the problem was vague at best. No telling what the task really entailed or what reward would truly be found in the completion.

3,000 Gil wasn't really much, in perspective, and _ancient blade_ likely meant very old, very rusty scrap of mangled steel.  
But there had been a time he'd worked for less...  
And at the moment, all he had was with him...  
If he wanted to eat for long he'd have to bring in some funds.

Much as he wished he had a peaceful talent, for almost twenty years, war had been his skill.  
Maybe this was something he was qualified to do...

He took the bill, folded it up, and put it in his breast pocket.  
He'd check on it first thing in the morning.

"Have a good night, hon!" The waitress happily called after him, having found her generous tip, and the moonlight guided his way back to his new home by the river.

* * *

Dawn came none too soon for the old man. He had tossed and turned the whole night, rising a half-dozen times to check on the sleeping boy.  
Through it all Faolyn had not budged. His pulse always steady, he had remained all night in the same position as if carved from stone.

The old man put together a pouch of tools and snacks and hurried to the boy's room.  
"Come Faolyn. We go to gather on the hills today. You'll enjoy the fresh air."  
He coaxed the boy from bed and directed him to change into the set of clothes given him.

The old man followed and waited outside the door as the boy refreshed in the washroom and then led the way into the soft morning light.  
Part of him wondered if the boy would bolt for the horizon, knowing that his old, aching legs could never hope to catch the swift, young feet.  
But the boy stayed obediently at his side, silent and solemn as for so long he'd been before.

The old man had himself not realized the level of change that had begun to take hold in the boy these past few weeks…until now, when all seemed in uncontrollable reversal.

They filled their satchels with herbs and roots and the occasional viper skin or wolf claw and made their way up the hill by the cave to rest for afternoon lunch.

The old man saw it first, the scrawl in the stone, the package secured, and contemplated what would best be done with it.  
Perhaps it would be better not to trouble the boy with this reminder of the past day's struggle. But it was too late.

The boy stooped and took the item, unwrapping the cloth to reveal the horn of the fallen dragon, cleaned and polished as best as had been possible in such limited time.

Faolyn rubbed the horn gently, removing more dirt, and put it in his gatherer's pouch without a word.

While the old man tried to eat and to persuade his charge to join him, Faolyn stood over the stone reading the words again and again, _"To Faolyn, whom I will not forget. -Noah"_


	5. Duty and Purpose

Basch walked through the street market, browsing the goods, interested to see if there were any unusual accessories or items to be added to his inventory.

Not that being Judge Magister left him wanting for supplies, but coming here reminded him of the Rabanastre Bazaar.  
And happily, he sometimes found unique selections and eccentric mixtures that could be the difference maker.  
Today there was nothing new to him, and he merely exchanged friendly words with the owners of the booths and their customers along his way.  
For that too was why he came.

Judges had long been looked upon with fear and distrust, even among their own people, and he meant to change that.  
If peace were to have a chance he must.  
If Larsa were to gain the confidence of the people his guardian must not cause them to hide their eyes and gather their children behind their backs.  
He carried his helm at his side, another change he knew from the past, to allow the people to become familiar.

In the beginning he could see the curiosity and skepticism in the eyes of the people, feel them taking in every detail of his face, and had been greatly unnerved though he had not let it show.  
Though he knew that the face behind the mask was little different now than it had always been, he had felt naked without the visor, exposed as a pretender.  
But as he forced himself to face the people, less now with each visit these feelings surfaced.

Today in fact he walked easily among the people, glad to be recognized with a smile and a nod and to hear, "A fine day, Judge Gabranth!" or "How are you today, my lord Gabranth?"  
Granted these greetings were still very few, far less than those who simply avoided looking him in the eye, but it was something. It was a start.

He stopped at another booth, one he'd not remembered from his previous visits, and picked up a beautifully crafted pair of plate gauntlets. He took a moment to study with admiration the detailed scroll work and intricate design.

"A Kasan Ranel original. One of a kind. You'll never see another pair like them…"  
The smiling young woman with beautiful, violet eyes paused and glanced over her shoulder toward a figure busy sorting through a box of materials several feet away and muttered sardonically under her breath, "Since the artist is too busy starving and suffering to be bothered with his muse."  
As quickly the young lady's face returned to a sweet smile. "Only 1,500 Gil for the pair! A steal, I know, but the artist would rather his hard work be put to good use. You understand."

"Very nice, but as you see-" Basch lifted his armored hands for her observation.

"Of course, you indeed have worthy armor, good sir. But you have a friend, perhaps, that is not so well suited?  
Beyond the artistry of the items, Kasan Ranel fuses medicinal properties into his works, a rare skill and one to be appreciated. Perhaps you would like to make a gift– "

"Leave the man alone, Dwen; he's not interested." A mellow, neutral voice interrupted her pitch.

Dwen scowled and cut her eyes angrily toward the man who never turned away from his task to look at them. "If it was up to you we'd never sell anything!" she returned, frustrated.  
The man did not reply or turn.

Basch followed her eyes to a tall figure with long, wavy dark-brown hair that fell over strong shoulders and back...shoulders and back marked by long crossed lines.  
Those were not scars caused by a sword.

The girl saw Judge Gabranth's intent study, and her expression changed to one of apprehension.  
She swallowed hard and stuttered so softly he could barely hear, "He-he was a soldier in the Imperial Army."  
The girl's head was slightly lowered as she quietly tried to explain, and she watched the officer from worried eyes.

Basch felt the heat of offended justice rise in his chest. So this is how Archadia treated her soldiers. No more, Basch told himself. No more.  
"I'll take them." He told the girl, his voice low and gruff.

She packaged the items silently and with trembling hands counted back his change.  
He had walked a few long paces into the crowded market when the girl recovered and called after him, "Many thanks, Judge Magister Gabranth! May they be worn in health."

Basch didn't see the artist whirl around, dark eyes wide and searching the customers mingling through the street, or know that he strode quickly to Dwen's side to ask sharply, "Gabranth? Judge Magister Gabranth was _here_?" He didn't hear the man's exclamation of surprise at the girl's affirmation.  
"It was Dwen who watched curiously while Kasan's eyes narrowed in deep thought and he motioned randomly around him, "Let's pack up. I have– something else I need to take care of."

* * *

Awakened from sleep by a rush of darkness, Father Tarachande knew at once something was amiss.  
Always he left a light burning. Faolyn preferred this, and the old man himself had become accustomed to it. There were no lights tonight. All was ink black.  
And from the boy's room he heard sounds of a struggle.

Instantly to his feet, the old man grasped a staff from beside his door and held it tightly, ready to strike.  
The boy's door was locked, and Tarachande had to steady his hand to turn the key.  
Inside the room was the same darkness, but in it a strange white glow all around the boy's body. Upon the bed Faolyn tossed and turned, moaning as if in great suffering.  
"It's all right, boy. It's all right," the old man repeated again and again, though he himself did not believe.  
He slowly approached the bed, cautiously, the staff tight in his hand.  
"Faolyn, hear me. It's only a dream. It's only a dream."

Moving to sit upon the bed at the boy's side, the old man shifted and transferred the staff to the opposite hand.  
The movement was slight, but the boy sensed. Suddenly his eyes were opened, glowing pale and yet bright, like moonlight.  
A flash of radiance overtook them, and Faolyn's white-blonde hair was instantly white as snow and animated, floating like so many feathers, entangling like wild vines.  
His skin was lit with translucent iridescence, and upon it blue wispy marks appeared. His lips were the same shade of blue, and from his fingertips spread globes of light, growing and spreading.

"Faolyn! Faolyn! Hear me, boy! Hear me! It's going to be all right. You are going to be all right."  
Tarachande moved slowly back from the bedside, carefully so as not to startle the boy any further, holding tight to the staff.  
Faolyn had risen, not so much standing on his feet as floating to an upright position over the bed, tips of his toes barely brushing the blankets.  
Speaking quietly to the boy all the while, Tarachande made his way backwards toward the door until he stood framed in the opening.

Faolyn moved as if to follow, and in that instant the old man made a decision, calling for strength he'd long left idle. The staff in his hand leapt with flaming mist.  
The boy's body shrank violently from the flame, and a mournful cry rose from his lips.  
The white-blue light disappeared ,and the boy fell in a heap upon his bed, sobbing and moaning and shouting, "No, please, no. Naren! Naren!"  
Sobs racked his body, and the old man crept cautiously toward the bed, tormented by his part in the boy's suffering.

"Faolyn, please. Boy, it's only a dream." But this time it wasn't true. It wasn't only a dream. It was a memory. Naren would never return. "Faolyn...Faolyn..."  
The old man let the staff burn out and stood, grieved, by the boy's side, but he did not touch him or reach out to comfort, afraid of triggering another episode.

"What have I done? What have I done?" This he asked himself as he shut the door tightly once again, turning the lock and testing the strength of the frame with his own two hands.  
This he asked again, standing outside in the hallway long after, listening to the boy's softer cries.

Within his quarters he paused his pacing for a moment to take a book from his shelf, slide back the cover, and remove a second key from within a hidden niche.  
He ran his hand over a decorative section of his large desk and slid back a single slat, turning the key in the hole revealed there.  
He dusted off papers left to time and looked down at a rough sketch of a man and a boy.  
They'd had it done by a traveling artist on one of their educational trips into the city one spring day all those years past. The old man sighed as he recalled.

Father Tarachande or Elder Tarachande he had been called for more than a decade now...but not always. He was looked on here as the kind old healer...but not always.

Days came and went when he hardly thought of those times, the days at the hand of power, walking the grand halls, the gardens, the libraries...  
Yes, the libraries, it was there they'd most often walked.

They'd studied history, battles, and great leaders. Discussed ideas and debated theories.  
How many times had they bantered back and forth over the differences in governing bodies, the pros and cons of Republic versus Monarchy, or Monarchy versus Empire.  
And how could he forget the contests of strategy that had lasted far into the night or the rush of footsteps entering his quarters, eager to share some new thought with the early morning light.

But how had he not seen when the shadow first fell? How had he not known when the bloody hand had finally grasped that one so dear and turned him to a bloody sword?  
They said he was gone now. But in truth he'd been gone for years.  
Gone because the only one who could have hoped to save him had instead failed him. That was all that could be said. Failed, abandoned, lost.

And now...had he done the same yet again? Had he allowed a darkness to enter that could never again be tamed?  
Had he by indecision allowed what was most precious to be stolen away?  
For though always he'd held this one at arm's length, afraid to become more than a mentor only, his heart knew the truth. He did care.

He heard Faolyn cry out in agony from across the hallway, and the old man's face crumbled as he laid his head in his hands and wept.

* * *

" I tell you, a wretched thief is stealing my Chocobos, Kupo! They must be returned before the big festival, or I will have none to rent out to the visitors! Please, help!"

Noah looked down at the little Moogle, her big eyes pleading as she bobbed, anxiously flapping her tiny wings. "I'll do what I can."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you! Bring my Chocobos back, and you won't be sorry, Kupo!"

He'd said he'd try. For all he knew they'd been eaten by some predator. No need to bring up such possibilities just now.  
She was sure a competitor was stealing her business. Noah felt otherwise.  
There were no suspicious tracks in or around the pen. No, that wasn't quite true. However-

_*Oof* *Huuh* *Ooh*_

The sounds of dull thuds and muted groans came to Noah's ears, ears tuned for just such things.  
As the townsfolk went along in oblivion through their tasks, someone was being assaulted not far away.  
Noah turned from the Moogle, raising a hand to acknowledge her parting cry of, "Don't be long, Kupo! I'll make it worth your while, I promise!"  
He turned down a side street and followed the increasingly violent sounds to a loading dock behind a small store where two Bangaa were beating a Seeq with clubs.

"Tell us where you hid it, unless maybe you want us to visit your family?" A raspy, deep voice threatened.

Noah drew his sword from the sheath and moved in low, staying in the shadows and coming up behind the attackers.

_*Hmf*_

Another hard hit felled the Seeq to the ground as the Bangaa who'd been holding him up scented Noah and let go, whirling around just in time to meet the edge of the blade at his throat.  
Noah stayed his hand as the other two assailants stopped and moved warily into defensive positions. "Let him go," Noah's voice was cool and low, "and your friend can keep his head."

Noah saw fear in the Bangaa's eyes as he glanced down at the sharp blade held steadily against his dark-blue reptilian skin.  
He saw the other two silently calculating their odds as they gauged the distance from their dead-end position to the corner of the building. Saw them rating their chances of making it past and being able to escape.

"Let him go! He's not bluffing!" The trapped Bangaa pleaded with his friends, helpless as he awaited their decision.

"Shut up, idiot!" The obvious leader of the group spat out angrily to his cohort as the other looked on.

No loyalty there, Noah could see. They'd sacrifice their friend, of that he was certain.  
If he'd been wearing the face of Gabranth they'd like as not have surrendered and begged mercy, Noah told himself, but who was he to them? Why should they take him seriously?  
...Well, then, maybe he'd have to give them reason to believe.

"Oh well, if that's how you feel." In one powerful motion he shoved his prisoner against the side wall, his sword flying in the other hand.  
He saw the panic and disbelief in the Bangaa's eyes just before the sword hit, and then he released him and let the body fall into the street.  
The others stood motionless, without the sound of even a breath, for a long moment, and then they were running.  
Noah swept his leg to the side and easily tripped one of the two who stumbled, crawled, and fell into the road in his hurry to flee.

The Bangaa leader had pulled a weapon and with finding it came an arrogant recklessness to replace the shock and fear of moments before.  
He lunged toward Noah with a vicious stab of the short-blade sword and a cry of, "You think you can take me, Hume?"

Noah felt a familiar rush and twisted to the side to avoid the hit, intentionally making it seem closer than in actuality it was.  
He went down, catching the Bangaa as he followed for a second thrust, flipping him head over heel into the dirt where he lay unconscious, his sword at Noah's feet.

The second Bangaa scurried from his hiding place behind a crate in the corner and pulled his leaders body away, watching Noah all the while as if for permission.  
Noah's eyes never left him until the two had disappeared.

He snatched a piece of rope and secured the first Bangaa's hands behind his back and his feet together, checking his vitals and the knot across his head where the hilt of Noah's sword had hit.  
Not the fatal wound that his unfaithful friends believed he'd sustained, but even with his tough hide and hard skull it would leave the Bangaa groggy and sore for a few days.

The Seeq was beginning to come around and at first just stretched out with a groan, but remembering his predicament he came up with a start, fearing the worst.  
Then a great smile spread across his large face, and a deep laugh started within the ample belly. "Friend! You saved Zol's life!"

Noah's eyebrow raised in irony. It was his buddy from the night before. Of course it would be.

" Zol owes you now for sure...er...what's your name again?"

Noah started. "...Noah."  
He said it quietly, as if that would somehow keep it secret.  
Should it be secret?  
Certainly he could no longer use the surnames of Gabranth or Fon Ronsenberg.  
But Noah...it could belong to any number of men.  
"Yes, Noah." He nodded as he repeated the name, content at last with the decision.

"Nolan!" Zol grasped Noah's hand and pumped it eagerly.

"Noah"

The big Seeq didn't seem to hear.

"What happened to the others?" Zol motioned toward the Bangaa and was looking around for the rest.

"They had a change of heart." Noah said neutrally.

"Ah, ran off and left him!"

"Somethin' like that." Noah offered no details.

"Why'd you let 'em go?" Zol frowned angrily.

Noah was undisturbed. "They can be found again-if need be." And then he addressed a different thought. "What did you take from them?"

"Hm?" Zol's beady eyes glistened with mischief as he feigned ignorance.

"Zol..." Noah repeated sternly, shifting his weight, a hand on his hip and exasperation in his eyes.

Zol laughed guiltily and shrugged his large shoulders.  
"Zol was out on the plain and saw them diggin' for treasure, so when they was sleepin'..."  
He trailed off with a wink.

"The Seeq and their treasure." Noah muttered amicably.

He meant nothing personal, but Zol took offense. "Humes don't seem to mind treasure so much. Or do you just kill each other for love?"

"Sometimes," Noah softly replied, but he raised a hand in apology.

The smile returned fully to the Seeq's face; all was forgiven.  
"Ah, it's all right, Noley."

"Noah" The mild correction was heeded even less the second time.

The Banga began to rouse just in time to hear Zol eagerly ask, "What do we do with this one, friend? Bash him in the head?"

Noah looked at his new friend with faint surprise and caution as Zol danced with excitement.  
The Banga struggled in vain against his bonds, fear widening his eyes and nostrils.  
Noah knelt at his side, something of Gabranth rising up inside him.  
"Your friends have deserted you." He reported softly, a dangerous undertone folded into the otherwise calm voice. "They have left you-alone-to face death."  
He ran his fingertips along the edge of the short-blade sword left behind by the Banga's leader and then coolly met the Banga's frightened eyes.

"Please, please! The Seeq is okay, is he not? We wanted only what was ours! Please, let me go!" The Bangaa shuddered in fear, unable to break free.

He was young, Noah realized, not far into adulthood as Bangaas aged. But he was well old enough to fight and to be much trouble, if that is what he wished.

"Maybe we don't have to kill him. Dungeons are for this sort of thing. You'll make a lot of new friends in prison, lizard-boy."  
Zol mocked eagerly, laughing as the young Bangaa cringed and squirmed in terror, but Noah frowned, cutting his eyes toward Zol with unmistakable displeasure.

The Seeq noticed the change in the eyes, the lowering of the brow, the tensing of the lips and hardening of jaw, and stepped back, uncomfortable.  
"Don't play with your food." The words were a growl, and Zol swallowed and was silent.

The Bangaa defenselessly watched his captor for a hint of his fate. Noah stared through him, his own thoughts far away.

Few in the Archadian Empire had been given to personal alliances with the other races. As Judge Magister he'd not often had good experiences with the Bangaa. Yet that itself had reason.  
Those he'd had dealings with, he did so for their proficiency in tracking and trafficking information, with no regard for moral character.  
If one were to judge all Bangaa by those, they were a vicious, disloyal, untrustworthy, mercenary, thieving lot.

...But such could be said of the Hume race if one took all at face value. And hadn't time taught him that very little could be?

The words in his memory, the ones that had caused him to stop Zol's tormenting of the prisoner, came back to him again,  
"_Sometimes the difference between whether one becomes your friend or your enemy is all in how you treat them when you know you've won."  
_She'd been right then, and, though he'd found it too often impossible to follow those words, he'd remembered.

"What's your name?" He asked his captive neutrally.

"Chakor"

"Chakor, perhaps we can reach a solution."

"What do you mean, give back the treasure, friend? It's Zol's treasure now! I stole it fair and square!"  
The Seeq fairly hopped along, trying to keep up with Noah's long stride and the Bangaa's easy lope.

Noah tried to hide his growing frustration with his new, self-proclaimed friend.  
"Give him back the treasure. He'll let you keep twenty percent of what you took, for pain and suffering, and they won't come back to knock you over the head or burn your house down. Sound reasonable?"  
His voice was dry and Zol looked at him cock-eyed as if to see if his friend could be truly serious. It seemed he was.

"Okay." Defeated, Zol pouted but gave in.

"Okay." Noah repeated, pleased, and Zol scowled heavily.

Beside him, Chakor remained quiet and unreadable but not disagreeable to the proceedings.

They turned down a street in the poor side of town, outside a small rundown shack that Zol called home, and waited. An old Seeq sat on a mat outside the lean-to, counting trinkets while Zol ran inside to retrieve his treasure, watching with a disapproving glare.

Zol emerged with a small, rolled up sack under his arm. He was followed by an angry female Seeq who intermittently threw out heated exclamations ("Get back here, bum! Run, lazy, good-for-nothin'!") between rotted vegetables and bottles that she flung toward the retreating Seeq's head.

"So, does she want you to stay or to go, Zol?" Noah posed the question mildly as he watched the Seeq brushed compost from a thick shoulder.

"Eh, she wants me to _want_ to stay." The Seeq shrugged as if it was all normal, and then he turned seriously to Noah, "Don't ever let a pretty face fool you, friend."

Noah looked away, struggling to control the smile that did not wish to be suppressed and saw that the young Bangaa too had a lowered head to hide his own spreading grin.  
Catching Noah's eyes on him, Chakor became at once serious again.

Clouds were rolling in once more, and with them to Noah came a desperate restlessness.  
Something within was screaming that this was all futility.  
Let the Bangaa crew and Zol sort out their own problems. He had other things to do...And yet, what were those things?  
There was no Emperor to answer to. No future of Ivalice to guard. No missions to complete. No duty to keep him.  
And yet the restlessness called.  
It called him back to Faolyn, and even to the old man, with questions such as, "Who will gather the herbs, hunt the beasts, work the field? Who will protect them from Dragons and other creatures of the night? ...Who will care for the boy if the old man's health should fail?"

Shadow fell over their path as the clouds blocked the sun and darkness of sadness covered Noah's heart.

"You okay, Noley?" The Seeq received no answer.

The first drops of rainfall on his face awakened Noah from his thoughts, and he motioned his companions toward a canopied outdoor diner. "Let's see what you have, Zol."

The Seeq forgot his brief concern in an instant and eagerly dug his hand into the sack.  
Noah watched as Chakor's eyes focused intently on every piece that was drawn out until Zol sat back triumphantly and crumpled the empty bag in his hands.  
Startled confusion and then panicked anger registered on the young Bangaa's guarded face. "Where is it?"

Zol cocked his head and squinted his eyes, "Where's what? It's all here. All except for one bracelet. Zol gave that to his lovely Biddie."  
He sighed with an enamored expression and then shrugged nonchalantly, " I can get it back, if you want, but, uh...we'll have to wait until she's asleep."  
He shuddered as if images of what lovely Biddie would do to him were fearful.

Chakor wasn't appeased. "A bracelet? Who cares about a bracelet. You can have it! You can have all of this." Disgusted, he pushed the stash back toward Zol, who looked at him curiously.

Noah watched the exchange silently, waiting.

"Where's the map?" The young Bangaa pressed, leaning forward to speak with quiet intensity.

"Map?" Zol seemed genuinely confused. "What map?"

"A piece of paper? Parchment? Folded up? Old and wrinkled with some marks and lines?" The young Bangaa drew an image in the air with his hands.

"Zol knows what a map looks like, lizard-boy, and I'm telling you, I got no map!"

Shock and disbelief covered Chakor's face. "I don't...I don't understand..."

Noah ran his finger through the droplets of water being sprayed onto the table, blending the beads together into random shapes. "The map, it's to a treasure, I take it."

Chakor nodded, "When I found it-"

"You found it?" Noah inserted mildly.

"Yes, in old papers when I was researching-"

"But you dug up-" Zol began to protest.

"We dug up that junk." Chakor waived Zol's treasure away like trash, and Zol gathered it to him possessively, with an insulted pout.

"Mohan said we should put the map in with the rest, so that no one would suspect."

"I see."

Chakor heard something conclusive in Noah's voice that turned his head. "You see what?"

Noah simply looked back at him, and Chakor shook his head angrily, "They're my friends! They wouldn't..."

"Frame a Seeq to take the fall, leave you to die, and escape with your map to go claim treasure you discovered?" Noah asked the question pointedly, and then he lifted a damp hand in surrender.  
"But they are your friends. You must know."

But Chakor wasn't saying anything anymore. Defeat and betrayal hung over him, and his long ears and broad shoulders drooped.

"What do you want to do?" Noah inquired. If the young Bangaa asked, he knew he'd go after the Bangaa thieves, retrieve the treasure or map, and deal with whatever doing so entailed.  
A part of him hoped and hungered for this.

But Chakor only laughed bitterly. "The map's no good. They won't find any treasure."

"What? All this for a hoax?" Zol slammed the table with his fist.

Noah held up a hand to calm him, and signaled Chakor to continue. "Why say you?"

"The map is of a city destroyed long ago. The whole place is under the sea. But I met Mohan and Shap, and they...didn't know...I thought it would be a fun adventure. Maybe we would find some other treasure. I-I don't like to travel alone." He turned to Zol sadly, "I'm sorry you were injured. I never thought-"

"Eh" Zol threw up a hand and continued counting up his bounty.

Noah placed the short-blade sword on the table.

"Here, take this. I don't believe your friends will be back for it."

Chakor took the blade and stared sadly at it as he struggled to understand, and then he looked to Noah in surprise. "I can go?"

Noah glanced at Zol, who didn't even look up from his treasure, and nodded. "Yes, you can go. But, were I you, I'd have more care with my associations in the future. Not everyone who says they are your friend speaks true."

Chakor nodded, took the sword, and walked sadly, and alone, out into the rain.

* * *

Kasan Ranel walked through the back door of the shop that bore his own surname. It was a respectable establishment many years older than his 30 years but only made prosperous by his own gifts and skill.  
The name that was marked on the sign above the ornate front door was his late father's, and yet all who came through the doors came for to see what "_that son" _of Inar Ranel had for sale.

This had never been his plan. He had dreams.  
Mass-producing bland, unoriginal items just because they were easy to sell wasn't one of them.  
But he was a dutiful son.

He had been, would still be, content to be commissioned by lovers and loved ones to create wedding bands, anniversary lockets, remembrance tokens, regenerative medallions, or protective bangles.  
How lovingly, carefully he'd once crafted beautiful, one of a kind pieces, as special as the people they were meant for.  
And in between he'd happily crafted a supply of wearable art, home decor, a sculpture or a statue here and there.

But, with all the fighting, armor had become the more functional item of choice and weaponry the most demanded.

And so came his most bittersweet creations.  
Strong pieces, laced with supportive and defensive qualities for the aid and protection of their owners. Metalwork that made strangers stop on the street to admire.

And then he had himself gone to war.  
Because he was a dutiful son.

While Kasan was away Inar Ranel had fallen ill and died, and his will left home and business to his wife, the only mother Kasan had ever known.  
She had quickly taken the reins of the business, and under her direction it had thrived, the name "Ranel" becoming known once again in respectable circles throughout Ivalice.

She had sold all of Kasan's customer stock, and then, needing more to meet demand, sold the special pieces he'd held back for his private collection.  
Some of these had gone for 20,000 Gil and more, though he'd named no price he'd take.  
Many of these exceptional creations had been purchased anonymously, and whispers said they ended up in the hands of those Kasan had found himself fighting against.  
All he knew for certain was that when he returned neither his works nor the money earned by their selling awaited him.  
Invested, she had said.  
He knew what that meant.

"Kasan!" Haleine Ranel rounded the corner, both beautiful and austere, with her hair pinned up and her garments immaculately fitted and pressed, to address him, "Where have you been?"

"Hello, mother," he returned softly and bent his head to kiss her cheek.

She flinched away from the intended affection and repeated severely, "I asked where you have been!"

"The Market."

Haleine frowned. "Ridiculous! Have you forgotten that we have a business here, and customers asking for products we do not have, all because you sleep half the day away and waste your nights?"  
She tore a page from the notebook in her hand. "We have orders. Get to work."  
Glancing at him briefly, disdainfully, she whirled and disappeared back onto the floor of the shop, "And put on a shirt. You disgrace yourself."

Kasan smoothed the paper with trembling hands and read the lines of customer names and orders. Five more for the same as last week, same as the week before. He sighed.  
And yet, despite her complaints, he'd have them done ahead of the customer's deadlines.

He sat the paper on the desk and quietly shut the door that sealed his workshop off from the rest of the shop and main-house.  
Taking up a sculpted paperweight from his desk, he stepped softly to the wall where a raised-cast gargoyle with hollow eyes and gaping mouth greeted him.  
Twisting the paperweight counterclockwise, Kasan pulled the weight apart to reveal a concave match to the gargoyle but this with protruding eyes and tongue.  
Fitting the two pieces together, Kasan turned the whole and pulled.  
An invisible safe opened from behind the wall of stone, and from within Kasan removed a pouch with a single item, a necklace, an heirloom creation much older than he.  
It was richly made and yet simple in its elegance, and it was still intact, save one piece.

As the bell in the shop signaled customers coming and going, Kasan worked carefully, skillfully, to repair and restore.  
A stern rap on the door raised his eyes, and Haleine's sharp call raised him to his feet.  
He set the necklace gently aside.  
He was a dutiful son.

* * *

If terror had a face, Faolyn had seen it every night in his dreams since that single fateful moment when his life had changed forever.  
And yet every morn when he woke he remembered nothing, felt nothing but the void of incompleteness, of loss and of being lost.  
Still he was aware. Of what he could not say. But of something. A strange sensation that came and went. A surging power, like a river or great whirlwind.  
With this rush came a terror of its own, for always he felt as if he were drowning or on the brink of being torn apart.  
Each time he felt the power call, he shrank back to hide within the deepest, darkest part of himself, sealed from the current that would take him.

Never had that which he feared so threatened as throughout the night past, and the dawn found him unresponsive and still, though his heart beat evenly and his skin remained cool to the touch.

The old man poured a tonic between light blue lips, smoothed back the tangled, pale hair, and allowed a small hope that the worst was past and the boy would soon come back to himself.  
Yet he could not but fear a different end.

Neglecting all to constantly return and stand watch throughout the morning and afternoon at Faolyn's side, Tarachande did so with a prayer and a curse on his lips. And the blame he pressed upon himself he could not help but also lay on the man who'd come unbidden into the boy's world, though he knew in his heart that such blame was an injustice.

At the height of the afternoon sun, the old man stood upon a stool, undid the latch, and raised the small, single window in the boys room to allow fresh air and unrestricted light to flow within.

If he had remained but a few minutes longer to see the light breeze pass over the boy, he might also have seen the tendrils of white-light flowing softly with the wind. They rode along the veins of the boy's arms, as though down a winding river, and escaped into the free air, intertwining and lifting, seeking desperately, until they broke from the boy and took wing to disappear into the freedom and light of day.

When Tarachande returned to check on his charge he was alarmed by the boy's weakened pulse, clammy skin, and strange pallor. Immediately he closed the window, afraid the breeze was giving the lad a chill.  
As the sun moved on, the old man forced liquids and medicines between the boy's lips and tried to settle the fear that turned his own insides.  
He would not lose_ this_ boy. He could not.

* * *

Basch turned the gauntlets over again and again in his hands, his eyes cast downward in thought.  
He could not forget the deep, cutting lines that crossed like a grid upon the artist's shoulders, nor the look of fear in the girl's eyes when he had studied them in her presence.  
Could it be that Judge Gabranth himself was responsible for this terrible thing?

His brother's Gabranth before him had been Judge Magister in a harsh time.  
The Chief Intelligence Officer of the Empire, charged with seeking out information, tracking dissidents, tracing monies funneled to the Resistance, determining threats, arresting those found to be aiding and abetting the enemy...  
This Basch knew, for not only the Empire had eyes and ears.  
Long Basch had watched Noah from afar and listened for all reports that bore the name "Gabranth."

And he had heard many things...things that angered and grieved him.  
But the anger and grief had not been caused by tells of sadistic acts or barbarism.  
Indeed time had shown rather that Gabranth used not the law as a veil under which to hide acts of gratuitous malice but that he held to the Archadian Law as his sworn duty and dealt strictly within.

Fierce, he'd been, by all counts. Fearful were those who'd dared face him. Blessed those who'd drawn a sword against Gabranth and lived to tell the tales within the camps of the Resistance.

Basch had heard the stories. Those of Resistance sympathizers whose families had wakened to the sound of doors splintering or windows shattering to find their loved ones stolen by Imperial soldiers in the dead of night, never to be seen again, presumed to be forever vanished within the dreaded Dungeon's confines. Or those of rebel benefactors who had suffered more stealthy attacks as their assets were frozen, businesses seized, and watched generations of inheritance given into the purse of the Empire for their sins.

How many hiding places had been sacked, messages intercepted and destroyed, supplies confiscated and turned over to Imperial storehouses by the order of this man?

These were the sorts of accounts that had come to the ears of Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg.  
Beware Judge Magister Gabranth, they said. He hears; he sees.  
You cannot treat with him, they said. He's made of steel.

But other stories he'd been told, as the one by a young woman, then with a babe on her knee.

She'd been working in the foreign minister's office and was found, by means of Judge Magister Gabranth, to be spying for the Resistance- she having been enticed by agents in Bhujerba to gather sensitive information through her duties, passing them on to friends outside the Empire.

He was waiting for her when she'd walked into her locked apartment that night.  
Silent as a shadow, unheard and unseen, until she had shut the door and turned on the light to reveal him there in full armor before her. A terrifying specter indeed.  
Quiet he'd remained through all, she said, but plain.  
"Death," he told her, "is the traitor's fate."  
Her hand had went to her swollen belly with immeasurable grief.  
"Be gone by midnight."  
He'd handed out his sentence without emotion, his words resounding behind the helm, "Say no goodbyes. Warn no one of your flight. You will never return."  
And then he had paused, and his next words fell heavy. "This is the choice you have made, and the one you must live with...if you wish your child to survive."

Others would have interpreted the words as a threat. She recalled it as a kindness.  
She was allowed to leave with nothing but the clothes on her back and with a soldier in her shadow to see her to the border.  
He'd warned her strictly that should she return only imprisonment and sorrow would be hers.

And yet as she told the tale she had reflected with a gentle smile, "It gives one hope, does it not? For if even Judge Magisters have hearts..."

Yet it was accounts just such as this that had so angered and grieved Basch.  
For these were witnesses that Noah did have a heart, and, as Basch himself knew, one full of feeling.  
And how did one so betray his heart as Noah had done in joining with those that sought to stifle and extinguish the hope and promise that the Resistance wished to bring to the oppressed peoples of Ivalice?

That his brother had wrongly chosen, Basch was strictly determined.  
Yet, if this was the path he would choose, better Gabranth had cut out his own heart and cast it fully aside than to keep it bleeding and alive while he acted against those that sought to bring the very balm that might have healed the wound.

These same feelings had been his each time Judge Magister Gabranth had come to visit Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg, chained and imprisoned deep within the belly of Nalbina Dungeon.  
He'd come with old accusations amid new derision, and every word had hung with electricity of emotion, every beat of the eye like the pulse of a heart.  
The armor had been Gabranth, but it was truly Noah standing there before him, entreating him for a reason.

Basch had refused him any more than _hope_, for the ideal itself was the reason- must be the reason... How else could he himself have gone on all those years?

But Noah wanted more. And Judge Gabranth too had gone on.

Basch fought the old conflict threatening the tenderness that had enveloped his brother's memory; all divisions and accusations had disappeared when Noah's weakened hand had come to his and in the bond of accepting the trust of Larsa's care as his own.

Basch rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired.  
He would visit the artist soon and gauge for himself what kind of experience the man had with the Gabranth of old.

He would wait to judge his brother in this matter until then.


	6. Home and Abroad

The little Moogle, Philicia by name, gaped in surprise when she saw the tall Hume approaching. It had been less than two days. Then her expression turned as dark as the storms of the day, and she firmly placed small fists on her hips.

"Given up already, have you, Kupo? Don't expect me to pay for your time! I-" She suddenly stopped as the tall man calmly removed a feather from inside his cloak and held it in front of her eyes.

"Oh! Yes…yes…I see…"

Anger turned again as quickly to excitement.

"Where, Kupo?"

The Hume's blue-gray eyes shifted a shade, and the little Moogle snorted in exasperation, "Oh fine. I'll let you have a very valuable item from my inventory to add to your bounty. That's more than fair."

"I keep the mark." His tone was neutral.

Philicia scoffed, crossing her small arms and tilting her head scornfully. But the tall Hume only stared back at her with steeled eyes, and the merchant sighed and waved him impatiently away.

"Fine, fine."

"I'll return by the evening."

The little Moogle watched him go with a mixture of admiration and irritation and watched him only hours later return with the same conflict.

Rain-soaked strands of honey and wheat peeked from beneath the hooded cloak that might have been useful for disguising his face from unwanted study but whose thin material had proven useless against the weather. He rode into sight on a large Chocobo, accompanied by no less than a dozen more. Eight were females, and four were accompanied by their young. The herd in total was twice plus one as many as the little handler was missing.

The small Moogle's jaw dropped, and then she began to bounce in glee with eyes sparkling like gems as she saw her profits skyrocketing with this increase.

Just outside the Moogle's camp, the big Chocobo whirled and shook his neck angrily, reminding his rider that just because he'd been outwitted, captured, and coerced into bearing a Hume across muddy hill and rain-drenched plain did not mean he should be mistaken for tamed. The Hume lithely stayed with him, not disgracing his mount with an embarrassing pat but keeping a steady hand on the makeshift rein and a firm seat, returning the reminder as he stayed with every move that he too was a worthy opponent. The understanding again in place, the Chocobo's silvery feathers smoothed and his struggle eased as he accepted his rider's request to move forward.

"Ooo…ooo, Kupo! What a find! This will make me a wealthy merchant indeed! …You know, Kupo…for such a splendid find as that one, I would make you an impressive reward!"

The Hume's face darkened. "The others are yours, but this one I keep- as we agreed."

The little Moogle reached a hand toward the large Chocobo's head, and his iron-hard beak flew toward the tiny being, stopped just before the fatal blow by his riders matched grip on the rein.

"He stays with me."

There was no room for negotiating, and the little moogle, aware of how close she'd come to losing more than her newfound wealth, hurriedly nodded. "Of course, of course, Kupo. As we agreed!"

Noah dismounted and held firmly to the reins as her hired hands secured the flock within the pens.

The small moogle disappeared and then reemerged from behind the counter of her tent with the pouch of promised Gil, a sheathed blade, and a metal box which she opened and held out to him.

Noah was basically unconcerned with the contents of the box. He wanted the Chocobo as a mount. It would allow him to move farther and more swiftly. The Gil was not unappreciated. A necessity if he was to exchange this awkward clothing and armor for something more suited to his taste and fit. All else was unimportant. And then his eyes lit on a cuff.

"Ah! I see you have good taste, Kupo! A priceless one of a kind. Yours if you want it."

The little Moogle was secretly ecstatic. The item was valuable, true, but not so much as several other pieces she'd reluctantly included.

Noah took it indifferently and rode away, only out of sight stopping to turn the piece over in his hands and follow the lines of the engraved signature with sober eyes.

* * *

"It was a bold move, my lord."  
Basch commended in the voice of Gabranth as he moved to stand quietly at Larsa's side.

Newly returned from a tiring session of the Senate, Larsa was eager for the results and yet patience was required.  
To that end, Larsa and his guardian had retired to the palace gardens where the young lord hoped to find repose.

Who was to say how long the players would yet be discussing, debating, and haggling over the details of the proposal set before them?  
But the atmosphere remained in Larsa's favor, and beneath caution both he and his protector were privately confident the plan would not fail.  
Yes, some minor changes were to be expected. The Senate did have its pride to consider and would not altogether capitulate.  
Still, it was unlikely they would long hold out. The people were with Larsa and would not easily tolerate such pettiness.

Larsa was not unaware of his current bargaining position or of the power of the people in this time. To that point he had first revealed his proposal in public address, hedging himself with their support.

It was not without risk, though Larsa's tone, and indeed most sincere intent, was reconciliation at home as well as abroad, including with the contentious Senate.  
The grumblings were muted for the moment but they were still there, heard less in words than dark glances and silent stares of resentment.

The idealism and bright, hopeful nature of Larsa Solidor did much to draw the eye of the people from the ominous visage of the Judge standing in his shadow, but the hand of Gabranth never strayed far from the blade in case any were to dare test the young lord.  
Such was the duality of these times.

"It will succeed. We must succeed." Larsa spoke with determination and a trace of worry. "It is imperative to see trade established between Archadia and Dalmasca if we are to make permanent this new alliance."  
His youthful face was grim with seriousness, but still young Larsa held out his hand to catch a blossom that wafted in the breeze. A gentle smile brushed over his lips before the petal was whisked away on the wind and the gravity of the task returned.

"I believe the matter is likely to come about as you wish. Yet we must be prepared that in turn for yielding this point the Senate may refuse to give way to your desire of providing funds toward the rebuilding of war damaged areas."

"Yes, although to do so benefits all." Larsa was downcast, turning expressive eyes to his protector. "And the matter of our relationship with Rozarria is yet left unresolved. I would bring all our countries together in discussions toward our new goal, but it is difficult to know the way. If we move too slowly we risk losing the good will that affords us this influence and so squander our fortune, but if we act too quickly we risk seeming arrogant, alienating our own people and renewing conflict. Ivalice can ill abide either."

"Don't despair, Larsa," Basch reassured in his own low voice, "There will come a way. If they reject this approach, you will find another."

Larsa smiled gently, gratitude in his sad eyes, "Thank you, my friend. I-I don't know what I would do without you."

Basch, uncertain of the right words, was silent, but he moved to stand nearer the young man, his very presence itself a comfort, as if to say, "See, you are not alone, Larsa. I am here."

And yet the face of the Judge was overcast.

"What is it?" Larsa's eyes became at once concerned.  
The lines of thought on Basch's forehead deepened, but he was silent.  
Larsa turned to face Basch directly. "Please."

Basch's deep voice was made rough as he forced himself to speak, "My lord, it is not only the enemies of the Empire who suffer but also friends."

Larsa's eyes sought his guardian's carefully, seeking the truth in the tone of sorrow, listening carefully to words that came slowly.

"Not all sons of the Empire who went to fight at country's call returned, and more there are who live with daily reminders of the trials they have faced. Others have surely come home to find family gone or livelihood destroyed. Does not the Empire have a debt to these? Is it not the duty of the Empire to see them remembered and by some means repaid for their sacrifice?"

The soft blue eyes of Basch were grim and troubled as he stared past the drifting blossoms and saw again the artist in the marketplace.

But Larsa's eyes softened, and he reached out to touch Basch's arm gently, with understanding.  
When he spoke his own voice was husky with emotion. "I miss him too, my friend. His sacrifice becomes our beloved debt. We will make provision for their remembrance and aid. And though it must remain unsaid, we will know that we do so in his name. For our Gabranth."

The grief that was in Larsa's eyes seemed to clench in Basch's stomach as surprise turned to guilt in a flash of pain that shot through his veins.

Yes, a great sacrifice… Basch could see it clearly, the blood that slipped from pale lips as Noah struggled desperately to relay his final request. He could hear it, the faint catch of shallow breath as his brother fought to manage the pain that consumed him and ate away his remaining strength. He could feel it, the yet warm touch of a tired hand seeking comfort and finding rest in his. And it called him again, the enduring bond that had eased those last painful moments before the faint breathing was no longer heard, before the lips went still, before the hand slipped, and the eyes that had been fixed on his dimmed.

But then other memories rose within and fought back the tenderness with dual blades.  
King dead.  
Prison bars.  
Shame.  
_Betrayed_.  
Reks.  
Trust destroyed.  
Spirit broken.  
Vaan.  
Ashelia...  
Grief.  
Anger.  
_Pain..._  
Captain  
Traitor.  
Enemy._  
Disgraced._  
The artist in the marketplace.  
Scars that twined like barbed lace.  
The alarm in the young woman's eyes.  
Fear.  
Eyes that looked away...

Larsa saw the eyes darken and the lips tense and sorrowed for the grief he perceived as Basch held his gaze, but Basch simply echoed somberly, "For our Gabranth."

* * *

For a week of nights Noah rode the Chocobo across meadow and field to the border of the property on which lay the old man's estate.  
He could not seem to stay away.

Each night the same, at the border he eased his mount to a stop and sat somberly in the dark stillness, looking out across the field into the gloom of night.  
Somewhere at the end of many long hours, too soon before the break of dawn, the pair would return to the stretch of land beside the river, where the Hume would dismount and find a secure enough spot for a makeshift bed. There, at last, he would ease his aching body for awhile.  
And sometimes the proud Chocobo would graze, though not wander too far away, or stand in sleeping. But, more often than not, the creature would at some point fold his legs beneath his large body and lay beside his sleeping so-called master, sharing warmth with the Hume who'd dared think to subdue him.

Each night passed restlessly, with the Chocobo roused from sleep by intermittent moans and cries, as the Hume tossed and wrestled some great sorrow that would not let him be.  
Each morning saw dark circles beneath the Hume's tired eyes, and still he arose just the same. He washed his injured body in the icy river, bound his wounds with supplies from those sent with him, and set out, face shadowed by stubble and cloak, to occupy his day and so also his mind.

The town was becoming busier with each day. The locals were sending for added supplies as they stocked up for the big festival. Early arrivals were making camp and preparing their goods for sale.  
All of this meant one thing: vigilance, either from old habit of maintaining secrecy or fresh need.  
Noah was careful to remain a stranger in this place.

…This place…Where...?  
Noah looked to the stars and calculated, waiting for his usually keen powers of observation to move back into sharp focus.  
It was more difficult to concentrate than it should be. He found his senses disoriented and abstract too often.  
Still, old instincts and knowledge would not be denied, and his mind gathered details from what he surveyed, mapping out the area.

They were inside the once-Kingdom of Nabradia and closer to the border of Dalmasca than to Archadia, but he'd been here many times.  
That was to say he'd often flown above on his way to some other location, or found himself descending through the underground Nalbina Fortress Dungeons not so far away and yet so far beneath.  
His chest tightened, and he pulled his arms over his chest, rubbing them for warmth though it was not cold, seeing his brother, bruised and thin, shamed and suffering, before him...  
"Basch…"

By sheer will he forced his thoughts elsewhere. The aching in his chest eased somewhat, and his eyes drifted onward.  
…It would not be too great a journey from this vanquished Kingdom to the vanished borders of once Landis…

No. A piece of land did not a home make but those within it, and all he loved there were long gone.  
He shut his eyes to the stars and turned them instead over the meadow, imagining a warm hearth and the sound of a boy's laughter mixed with an old man's petulance.

The movement of a distant creature prowling through the grass caught Noah's eye, and his hand went to the sword at his side.

Too restless for sleep, Noah summoned his mount with a low whistle, and they rode out like a shadow.  
He would see to the boy's care in such ways as he had.

* * *

Dwen walked into the shop, nodded to Madame Ranel, and slipped into the back to find Kasan tiredly working on a line of identically matched swords.  
"Evidently the war's end didn't put weapons out of style."

At the dry words Kasan looked over to see Dwen leaning against the wall, her full lips twisted into a wry smile. "No. I guess not."

Kasan was clearly exhausted, and Dwen frowned in concern. "You've been working too hard. You need to get away."

Kasan smiled quietly, "I've been away, or had you forgotten?"

"I've not forgotten." Dwen's eyes were serious and sad. "But you can't spend the rest of your life locked up in here creating cheap replicas of your past work. That does nothing for you."

"Thank you. I'm aware of the current futility of my life, Dwen. But thank you for pointing it out."

Dwen ignored her employer's droll attitude and hurried on, "Look, what you need is to be inspired! What you need-"

"What I need, Dwen, is for you to let me get back to work so I can finish these weapons and get on to the next batch. That's what I need to do."  
The words were uncharacteristically sharp. Kasan's lips were a tense line, and his eyes were hardened. Dwen looked away, stung by the rebuke.  
Kasan lay his tools down with a sigh and stood with his head bowed as he placed both hands on the table, resting for a moment.  
Dwen approached him quietly but didn't speak, and when Kasan turned to her he could see the hurt in her eyes. He grimaced, regret strong within him, and went to her.  
One hand he placed on her shoulder. The other turned her face toward him. "I'm sorry." He said it softly, and tears filled her eyes.  
Angrily she shoved first his hands and then the tears away, but he pulled her into a protective embrace. "I'm so sorry, Dwen. You've been a great help to me. I appreciate it-very much. It's just…I'm tired."  
His kind of tired encompassed so much.

"I know. It's okay." Dwen smiled through her tears and then cautiously added, "I just-you're so much better than this, you know? You're Kasan Ranel!"

He laughed softly and backed away, embarrassed, and then laughed more, shaking his head. "I don't know."

"I know!" Dwen raised her chin stubbornly. Her eyes softened as she watched him return to his workbench and the mundane task set before him. "I just…I just want you to remember…before everyone else forgets."

Kasan's head turned, his eyes searching her face. That was what he also feared.  
"I think it may already be too late. Things were out of my control while I was away, and no one is knocking down my door for special orders these days. The only orders I get are through Haleine-this kind of thing." He swept his hand toward the unexciting pieces. "I've tried to put out some unique items out at the Market, and it's not only _not_ brought in new customers but the time and materials I spend on those takes away from the work I should be doing here."  
Dwen opened her mouth to protest, but Kasan raised a hand. "Listen, it's not like it was before. My father is dead. I have to earn my keep and contribute. I can't only think of myself."

Dwen frowned sullenly, "You never think only of yourself. She never thinks of you. She takes advantage!"

Kasan motioned for Dwen to keep her voice down.

"How can you defend her? She stole from you! She stole your work _and_ your good name! And now she only uses you to get more for herself!"  
Dwen refused to be quieted, and Kasan walked past her and shut the door to block out the sound of their conversation

"Please, Dwen." He walked back to her, looking down into her violet eyes, "You're a good friend, but I have to do this my way."

Something in his words hurt her, though she tried to hide it. "Fine. I'll leave you alone. But maybe you could take a look at this when you aren't so busy."

She shoved a wrinkled flier into his hands and whirled toward the door.

"Dwen-"

But she was gone, and he was a little more tired than before.

* * *

Basch fon Ronsenberg was lost in thought as he made his way down the cobbled street toward the artist's shop.  
Why he'd delayed for days to follow up on this situation was not something he wanted to directly acknowledge, but he could hear even now some part of him whispering, _"Leave it alone. The past is the past, and Noah is gone. Let him be. Remember him as you loved him, and let the good Gabranth can now do be enough to atone for past misdeeds. Let it be."_  
And yet he was driven.

Absentmindedly he nodded to a family who passed by. How they returned his acknowledgment, pulled more closely together, and quickly passed by was not lost on him.  
A small gathering of children played on the sidewalk in front of the door and scattered like a flock of birds at the sight of the imposing Judge.  
Why he was wearing his helm he didn't quite know, but still he did not remove it.

The ringing of a bell sounded as the door opened, and Basch waited a moment to let his eyes adjust.  
A handful of customers occupied the space. One held a sword up to study its blade. The few others browsed with mild interest. All left the store at the appearance of the Judge, the bell sounding out at each exit.

Kasan Ranel emerged from the back of the store, on his face a look of curiosity that quickly turned to shock and moved to wariness. "Ah. Well, that explains the mass exodus..."  
His eyes never left Gabranth's helm, as if searching the face behind it.

Basch was silent, and the artist's eyes shifted, looking toward the exit as if to determine his odds of escape.

"Is there a problem, Judge Magister?"

"I have only a few questions for you."

At once the artist's head tilted and his eyes widened like a creature who smells danger on the wind. At the traces of alarm evident upon Kasan Ranel's face, Basch lowered his eyes behind the darkened mask.

"I fear I have served you an injustice." His voice, Gabranth's voice, was heavy with Basch's own disappointment.

The artist's eyes narrowed and hardened. "Do you?"

The words were calm, but there was a touch of anger within the short response, and Basch felt the heaviness of the burden he carried increase its weight.

"I would hear what is required to make right."

The voice of Gabranth was soft and shot with sincerity, but a mocking glint shown in the artist's eyes, a grim smile upon his lips. "I fear, _my lord_, that time is past."

Basch took a step in the artist's direction, and the artist's fist clenched as he watched Gabranth with steeled eyes.  
The shop bell rang, announcing an entry, and the artist raised his eyes and winced, all antipathy ebbing into discomfort.

"And what has our humble establishment done to secure a visit from such a venerated guest as _yourself_, Judge Magister Gabranth?"

The hostility with which Haleine Ranel greeted Judge Gabranth made the artist's manner seem almost welcoming, and Basch sensed the moment was lost for him.  
He nodded to both, making his exit. The bell signaled his departure behind him.

He felt the eyes of the children watching him from across the street, every step a little harder to take than the last…

* * *

Kasan silently endured his step-mother's bitter interrogation, "A Judge Magister, here! Here! Why? What do you know of it? Tell me!"  
She closed the shop and followed him into his studio, still questioning him even as he gathered up tools, supplies, and Dwen's flier along with them.  
She followed him as he made his way, laden with satchels of materials and goods, to the door of the shop, grabbing his arm viciously so that her nails cut into him, forcing him to look at her.  
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Answer me!"

A forceful slap rocked him and released a thin line of blood from his lip.

He looked down at her, gentle sorrow in his eyes, and handed her the flier.  
She looked down at the paper in her hand, and he kissed her cheek with sad tenderness, "I'm going to the Faire."

The door opened. The bell rang. And Haleine Ranel stood there trembling, the wrinkled paper in her hand and a bloody shadow of a kiss on her face.

* * *

The night air hung like a heavy curtain, smothering him. Even his very breath brought tightness to his chest. All about lay a fog-like blanket, concealing from his sight the truth and any escape.

Fear gripped him and chased a scream to his throat. "Naren! Naren!"

But it was not Naren that came but _She_, wailing like a wild thing, alight with spirit and flame, reaching her arms toward him for a killing embrace.

He called again for the only hope he had left, "Father! Please!" But the eyes that turned to glance his way were a mix of fear and grief and only looked on him a moment before turning as the form slipped away.

"No…please…no…"

But no one came to save him. No one came to his aid.

The room was alive, the air dancing with angry sparks. Her fists closed and so did his throat. Then, in one violent motion, _She_ threw her hands up and out, and everything became instantly bright. The earth beneath him, the wall behind him, the roof above him, all seemed to heave. The sound hit him like a wave, and then everything was silent and fading, his own body seeming to float. This must be death.

He drew the breath that would surely be his last, and two words escaped.

_"Naren…"_

The pale tendril wound itself from his lips to the sky and then burst into light, and as his body collapsed his eyes closed on the shimmer.

_"…goodbye."_

* * *

Another morning and another curtain of shimmering dew hung like droplets of the last night's stars, strung together like beads on string, obscuring the valley. It seemed the haze was thicker these past mornings, though the rain had been less.

Noah emerged from the familiar cave and looked down at the house below.  
He would be gone before the boy went down to breakfast, too soon to be witnessed. He did not want another confrontation with the old man, for Faolyn's sake.  
But his concern for the pair had overcome his caution, and he had come early to this place bearing the fruit of a long night's hunting.  
The boy would come here, he was certain, having seen his previous gift had been received.

The sun revealed its face and licked up the dew. But still the door below was shut and the curtains drawn.

Two pale, winged creatures circled above the valley, and the silver Chocobo stepped nervously, causing Noah to become alert. What were these? He'd never seen the like, but then the odd beast might appear anywhere, really. One could never know and must always be on guard.  
There was something mournful about these even as they soared and dipped and came ever closer.  
He stared, strangely immobilized, as the two flew toward him, something pulling him in. The Chocobo let out an anxious cry and galloped away, fluttering his unhelpful wings frantically.

The creatures were transparent and shimmering like the morning veil, and as they flew toward Noah's face they seemed to dissolve into the air so that when they met him he only barely felt the touch of their cool, burning fingers against his cheek. It was enough.

Fear coursed through him like he'd known only a few times-and never for himself.  
_"Faolyn."_  
Without thought he ran toward the home below, taking no care with his newly mending body.  
He did not stop at the door but kicked it in with a fierce blow, stepping through the gaping hole without pause and taking the stairs to the boy's room three at a time.

Just as he reached Faolyn's door it swung open, framing the old man, his face weary, his eyes red with sorrow. Noah merely swept him out of the way with one arm and was at Faolyn's side.

Noah himself paled and his lips tightened as he took in the boy's ivory pallor and deathlike stillness.  
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Faolyn's hair, floating without breeze, at the glow cast about the unmoving form, and at the blue markings on his skin.  
But this reaction was swift and then the shock was gone. He scooped the boy up in his arms, cradling his body against his chest and ignoring the old man's protests, and carried him out the door into the warm sun.

Somehow managing to remove his own cloak and wrap it around the boy while holding him gently in his arms, Noah knelt down on earth still marred by the reminders of the battle that had occurred not long past.

There he rocked the limp body, smoothing back the mangled tresses as if there was nothing unusual about them.  
All the while he was speaking to the boy in hushed but urgent tones, "Faolyn, do you see the sun? It's a beautiful day, Faolyn, don't you think? Faolyn, open your eyes. Faolyn… please…"

The old man stood back, wringing his hands, hoping, praying, and all the while angry with this arrogantly interfering stranger. Angry too at his own helplessness. Angry at his own blame.  
Angry with this man for whatever part, willingly or not, he had played.

At the same time, Tarachande, dismayed, was fearful for the man who dared to intercede.  
The eerie, translucent fingers of shimmering, pale light like flames rose and fell. They seemed for a moment to die down only to burst forth once more in anger.  
And the old man could see his once patient's body shudder in pain. He could see the face tighten, and the lips clench when the powerful waves came.  
But instead of pulling away he would only pull the lad closer into his embrace and stroke his hair gently, saying, "It's okay, Faolyn, it's okay."  
And Tarachande wondered if he would be soon made to dig two graves.

One hour passed and then another, and still Noah sat with the boy in the sun, talking with him. As he did so, the pale light lost its violence and began to grow more and more tame until finally Tarachande felt it safe to leave them alone for a time.

He returned to the house, making a new place for the boy's care. He was afraid to dare too great a hope but was heartened by what he'd seen.  
Perhaps, he allowed, this man's return could bring a change of tides. A part of him was relieved that another had come to share the burden and perhaps offer a solution.

Finally, as dusk was creeping over the hills, Noah appeared in the doorway of the room not so long past his own, carrying the boy to the newly made bed.

The old man felt tears spring to his eyes as he saw the signs of life in the color of the boy's skin and the vanishing of the outward aspects of his episode. He smiled gently, with eyes only for the boy, as he observed Faolyn's chest rising and falling in restful sleep.

Noah stood watch behind, his body screaming with a pain he did not understand, reaching a trembling hand to the door-frame to keep himself upright. He had endured the sickening cut of flesh, the breaking of bone, the blinding, smothering crush of horrific impact. This was different. It hurt worse and it hurt less than any pain he'd known. It was like the caress of something bitterly cold and yet fiercely hot, as if something living had crawled across his chest, licking up a portion of his skin along the way.

Noah's eyes were still on the boy as the old man treated the child, but he let his own trembling fingers tear at the troublesome buttons and pull open his shirt, careful not to be observed.  
His eyes flitted downward to see if there was any sign of blood, and he froze in shock.  
Across his chest and still spreading toward his shoulders he could see blue lines, some thick and some almost invisible, all wildly tangled like scroll-work. There seemed some spark in the color, like the twinkling of crystals.  
For a moment he couldn't breathe. And then he sensed the old man shifting and pulled his shirt closed, folding his arms over his chest to conceal any revealed skin, careful to mask that he was stunned by what he'd seen.

Despite Noah's efforts, the old man noted the wide eyes of the man he faced; however, he took it only as response to the boy's episode.  
"He sleeps untroubled. We should let him rest."

Moments earlier nothing would have taken Noah from Faolyn's bedside, but now all he could do was nod and turn to make his way up to what was once the boy's room, arms still folded over his stinging chest.

* * *

Basch was ill. He asked for, and received, permission to be dismissed from the evenings dining with Larsa, who yet waited word from the Senate.  
It had not been particularly easy. Larsa had not been angry, of course, but was at once highly concerned for his guardian's well-being and eager to send for a bevy of physicians to determine the cause of Basch's malady.  
Basch had only barely managed to save himself prodding and testing and partaking of an unpleasant array of medicines, but he did rather wish he had something that would force him to sleep and erase the turmoil of his mind for a time.

He showered and dressed for rest that he longed for but feared would elude him.

Not only his encounter with the artist troubled him.

In truth, the meeting with the artist had been particularly vexing and he'd been futility driven to seek resolution _because_ of the thing that distressed him most.

Soon he and Zargabaath would start reexamining the case of each political prisoner yet remaining in the Empire's hands. Though some had found immediate release, there were still many that remained in the Dungeon, albeit in considerably better conditions than those he'd known.

Of all the tasks he had taken on in his brief time as Judge Magister, this promised to be the most difficult for a once enemy and unjustly made prisoner of the Empire. He could not help but consider that many of those he must judge were from the very rebellion he had dedicated his life and honor to.

He must be clear enough to Judge fairly and rightly.

He must _not _be Basch fon Ronsenberg. This was the first thing he must establish within himself.  
Here he _must_ be Judge Magister Gabranth, Knight of House Solidor and steward of the Imperial Ministry of Law.

Could he succeed in upholding his duties and remain true to that which had led him from home to Dalmasca and now saw him to this place? He must.

Despite the conflict that came with remembering, increasingly Basch found himself wishing he could speak to his late brother, in particular to ask questions of Archadian law.  
If only Noah had left behind some record of the duties that were now his.  
But of course Noah had moved in stealth, as was necessary and prudent, and there was no paper trail of his involvement in state secrets.

The quarters Basch had come _home_ to were immaculately clean and carefully devoid of anything that spoke of his actions within the role he played. There were only a very few simple and slight traces of Noah himself: an ornately carved candle- half-burned, a book- marker placed three-quarters of the way through. Basch had left such things as they were.

It wasn't that Basch found himself struggling in the new role he'd assumed.  
When at Larsa's side he knew what was expected and fell naturally into place.  
Protecting and guarding Larsa, listening and comforting the young leader, came naturally.  
It was no burden to be in service to Larsa.

And much of Judge Magister could also be found in Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg. Though Dalmasca had been a small country without the level of intrigue found in Archadia, and perhaps in part _because _of this, his had not been a simplistic role. For the decreased military might and personnel had meant an expanded role for one called Captain.  
He'd been trusted by the throne and entrusted with state secrets, as his brother, Judge Magister of the 9th Bureau of Archadia, had also been…

Basch sighed as he remembered his King, dead.  
The Captain had failed. The Judge Magister had succeeded. Was that all there was to the story?  
He pushed himself past that moment and crawled beneath the luxurious sheets, stretching his long frame.

When given the maps of Archadian territory as it was placed in Ivalice and supplied with record of all troops, Basch easily saw weaknesses and strengths. At once he began to form his own plans as to where to maneuver to keep the country strong.  
Suddenly privy to the secrets Captain fon Ronsenberg had always sought, he had been at first taken back to see how far Archadia's touch extended. A part of him had balked at sending orders to strengthen the post-war interests of what seemed an insatiable Empire, but he had seen it done.

There was a question in his mind as to the agents his brother had placed in the field-those shady individuals who melded into a society not first their own, watching, listening, and reporting back to the one who placed them there. They were the eyes and ears who helped to gather the sensitive information that the 9th was responsible for.  
This bureau was being restructured to suit Basch's Gabranth, but one could not simply cut off the hand and pluck the eyes. The Empire needed a stealthy presence elsewhere.  
In this day he needed to know what the people said outside of Archadia, to know if there was any threat without that could reach within to Larsa. He could use these ties.  
And yet there was no record of who these were. No one had known except Gabranth.

…Well, that was not altogether true.  
Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg and the Resistance had known of some of these shadows.

Basch's Gabranth had returned some to their task with new orders-restrictions placed upon their behavior within their role to fit his own code.  
Some he also knew had died, killed by the Resistance they had spied upon.  
But there were others of whom he had no knowledge of. He was certain of this, and it worried him.  
Also, those he was aware of he did not know beyond his experiences on the opposition.  
He did not know their temperaments and methods and past experiences with Gabranth.

Desperately he needed someone to work for him that he could depend on. But who could that be?

If Balthier were here, a sky pirate might serve a likely agent. But Balthier was gone.  
He'd not ask Vaan to work for the Empire, even in the aid of Larsa.  
And it was obviously impossible to draw from allies in Dalmasca.  
Perhaps time would provide an answer, but did he have time?

Basch yawned, weary, but still he could not get comfortable.

His leadership with the men under his command had not been questioned. The officers of lower rank accepted him as Judge Magister. But then, perhaps it helped that there had also been a restructuring of the military after the war.  
It was necessary. Too many Judge Magisters had fallen.  
To compensate, other lesser Judges had been given promotions and put into place as Generals over their respective battleships.  
Possibly in time these would be promoted to take the place of the Judge Magisters who had died in the role. But at this time Gabranth and Zargabaath were simply made leader of all.

Part of the Judge Magister's responsibilities had been divvied up, giving the lesser Judges under them more of the field responsibility over the companies under their lead.  
This left the senior Judge Magisters to handle the most sensitive and important responsibilities, while elsewise they took more of an overseeing role.  
This served also to keep them closer to Larsa, free to answer to his call and need, for Gabranth would not leave the young lord unprotected, and Zargabaath also seemed reluctant to far stray.

Yes, so far it went fairly well. Yet he now feared the first time he must look on the face of a resistance member and read the charges against the accused. He would not care, he knew, to see evidence or hear arguments. He would wish to set free. And what would happen if law would not allow…

As his mind worried, his body slowly accepted the rest that the bed offered, and the racing thoughts slipped away into the shadow of dreams.


	7. Phantoms, Friends, and Foes

Inside Faolyn's modest room, Noah locked the door and lay aside his shirt, shedding the bandages that bound his upper body. Alone, he studied the blue threads that wound like vines and lay below his skin like veins.  
The pain had eased to discomfort, and there was no further creeping.  
From outside the door, ever nearer, came the sound of Tarachande's steps moving slowly up the stairs.

Noah instinctively grabbed his shirt and refastened it over his torso, scooping the abandoned bandages into a pile under the nearest blanket.  
A part of him whispered that he was acting like a child about to be caught by his parent with a hand in the cookie jar, but he silenced the amused mocker within and calmly opened the door as the old man was reaching for the knob.

Tarachande backed a step, startled, and studied the younger man closely. He was unsettled. Something was amiss.  
The old man shook off the apprehension and sighed. "I must speak with you, but let us take our conversation downstairs. We should not stray far from the lad just yet."

Noah's eyes darkened with worry. "Is he not improved?"

"He is improved…" Tarachande was vague.  
The old man motioned for Noah to follow and retraced his steps slowly to the level below.  
Noah took a moment to run his hand over his chest and upper arms and then followed.

Tarachande motioned Noah toward the dining chamber, detouring to check on Faolyn's rest, but Noah instead waited at the doorway. The boy roused just slightly as the old man spooned broth between discolored lips.

Memory took Noah, and his eyes left the boy's face. Another took its place. ...Her face was thinned by illness, soft hair fanned about her as she lay upon the pillow, still... He looked out through the eyes of his younger self, watching closely for the precious rise and fall of her chest to signal life yet remained within…

"Ah!" Tarachande was started to turn and find Noah standing like a grim angel behind him, sober and sedate, his eyes lost to another time.  
The exclamation snatched Noah from the scene that played before him and returned him to the small room.  
The two men regarded one another for a moment and then, in mutual but unstated agreement, retired to the dining hall.

Noah stood waiting as Tarachande paced behind the chairs, and the old man scowled impatiently when he took note. "Sit, sit!"

Noah pulled out a chair and folded his long frame into it. He was still mildly aware of the strange sensation upon his skin, a lesser pain now than that caused by seeing Faolyn's frailty or the torturous grief of memory.

Tarachande continued to pace in silence, and Noah waited the same, until at last the old man turned.  
"I need to know what you intend."

There was no anger in the words, none of the past resentment or bitterness. The lack of such caught Noah by surprise.  
"What do you wish my intent to be?" He asked the question carefully, and Tarachande threw his hands up and cursed beneath his breath.

"By all that is good! Can you not directly answer a simple question?"

Noah straightened in his chair and stared at the old man, eyes guarded, "I cannot answer until I know what you have withheld from me."

Tarachande's movements became more deliberate, and he turned his back to the younger man.  
"Yes? Pray tell, what could _I _have withheld from you?"

"The last I recall, I was dying. Of this I am certain. I do not know how I came to be here or how I came to yet live, but I do know that before this I had…certain…_responsibilities_..._duties_. You said something about my being thrown off by my companions. Does this mean…"  
Noah struggled to frame the questions, and Tarachande chewed his lip, face still turned away.  
"I need you to tell me. Do my…_friends_…know that I live? If so…do _you_ know what is expected of me? Or shall I return to ask? I-I cannot…I _will_ not make frivolous promises of my life until I know what claim is left upon it. I would not do such a thing...to the boy…"

Tarachande suspended biting his lip, face frozen momentarily by the posed thought. He clenched his fist around the post of a chair, an action not unnoticed by Noah's observant eyes, and then turned with sympathy in his eyes.  
"Ah, son, I confess, just recently I'd have been glad to give you this news. It might be my old heart is calloused after all. But, as now I owe you a debt for again coming to the aid this child in my care, I repent my former, foolhardy lack of compassion."

Noah's brow drew as he listened, and the old man sighed.  
"Yes, lad, your friends know that you live. Through the young leader of Archadia himself came the strict orders concerning you. I should have taken them more seriously perhaps."

At the mention of Larsa there was immediate tension in Noah's frame. He tilted slightly forward in his chair, chin lifted and eyes focused intently, waiting for what was to come.

"You must understand that much has changed in the span of your convalescing. Entire alliances have shifted. The old gives over to the new. Such is the way of things. It is natural."  
He spoke carefully, as if attempting to buffer a blow, and the eyes that searched the old man's face were carefully devoid of emotion.  
"Lord Larsa would like you to know that your friends will remember. But-" He lifted his hands before him, and Noah's eyes shifted away.

"Yes?" The low voice was carefully neutral.

"The need is new, and others rise to fill it." The old man's face was unusually kind, and his eyes were full of consideration. "The young lord grants you release and asks only that those who come after be not compromised by your freedom."  
Tarachande had not expected to see such raw pain in the blue-gray eyes that met his nor the clear wash of hurt upon the strong features. The sudden, exposed emotion was too fierce and strong. The old man looked away. "I'm sorry, son."

Silence lay heavy in the room, and then came the return from a voice velvet and yet rough.  
"I…understand."

Tarachande heard the chair scrape lightly on the stone tile and the quiet tread as the younger man vacated the room. The old man closed his eyes and put his hands to his brow, but guilt would not be forced away.

Noah slipped into Faolyn's room and took to the chair next to his bed as if it was his given place. Tears unshed tore from his heart to join their brothers and sisters in the depth of his soul.  
He smiled softly as he observed the boy breathing normally, another shade closer to health.

Faolyn's eyelids fluttered open and settled unfocused on Noah's face. As he tried to speak, Noah reached and put a hand upon his arm. "It's going to be okay, Faolyn. I'm here. I'm here."

* * *

Tarachande watched from the hallway and then climbed the stairs to his quarters. It had been risky, invoking the name of the young Solidor. If the interpretation of the secretive orders that had brought this man to him had been wrong… If his intuition concerning the man's alliances had failed…  
Good that it had not.  
From his desk he took the folded piece of parchment, there upon the words over which he had so long labored and determined until now to see delivered. He paused only a heartbeat before touching the page to the flame upon the hearth, watching as the letter turned from pale wheat to black and then crumbled to ash.

* * *

Sleepless, Noah left Faolyn's side sometime when the moon was high and wandered out to the fields. Under the glow of the moonlit sky he searched and found the certain ingredients needed for his plan. He had slipped back into the quiet house before the old man had awakened.

When morning had come, Tarachande took his aching legs down the flight of stairs and to the room where Faolyn was kept.. He stopped to frown at a pile of stained rags beside the door and then stared openly in shock at the visage of the man who snored lightly from the chair beside the bed.  
The young man's face was shadowed deeply, and the tousled hair that was once gold and wheat was now black as ink…

Faolyn opened his eyes and looked around, dazed, and then gasped in fear at the stranger beside him.  
Noah was instantly awake and aware. "It's okay, Faolyn."

Faolyn's eyes grew worried, "Did I do that to you?"

Noah laughed casually, "No. I did this to me. Do you not like it?"

Faolyn relaxed, a smile tilting his lips. He shrugged indefinitely.  
"Why did you do it?" Curiosity lit his young eyes.

"Better for keeping secrets." Noah winked lightly, and Faolyn nodded. He understood.

"Are you…are you okay?" Faolyn's pale lips, still a touch blued, barely parted to release the words. His eyes overfilled with sadness.

"I'm fine." Noah reassured him with a smile.

"I hurt you." The lips trembled and the voice choked, eyes spilling tears. Noah's jaw tightened, pained for the boy.

"Faolyn, I am fine. My concern is for you." Noah reached out his hand toward the boy's, but Faolyn jerked his hand away.

"No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! I hurt you! You don't understand... I _know_…I _know_..." Faolyn's voice lowered to a panicked whisper. "I could feel it. I-I didn't _want_ to hurt you. I tried to not. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

Faolyn was sobbing now, streams of tears flowing down his pale, thin cheeks. For a moment Noah sat stunned, but then he was at the boy's side, pulling him close as he had that fateful day past. Faolyn struggled with him, afraid for his friend's sake, but Noah was still the stronger and not to be dissuaded.

"I'm okay, Faolyn. You did not harm me. It will be okay." His voice was firm and calm.

No, Faolyn hadn't harmed him, not past the pain he'd had to see through. Once it had passed the experience had oddly left Noah feeling refreshed and his injured body less weak. Whether he was simply healing, learning to live with the effects, or if it was something more Noah couldn't say. In any case, he had felt closer to his old strength since the experience.

Faolyn's tears ceased and he moved, asking silently to be released from the embrace. Noah released him, wishing desperately that he might take the hurt from the boy and heal the scar.

For awhile they sat together, Noah sensing Faolyn was trying to gather his thoughts and find words to speak.  
When they came the words were soft, and Noah struggled to hear.  
"You've been kind to me. And when you're here, I feel like…like maybe...like maybe it'll be okay." Faolyn looked to Noah quickly and then looked away. "I'm sorry. I know it's not…it's not fair, really. I-I know you have other-other-"

Noah interrupted, "I had no choice in the matter when I was brought to this place. But I chose to return. I am here." A sad but kind smile skipped across his lips and gentled his sober face.

Faolyn shook his head. "You should have stayed away. You don't know. You don't know what I am. I..._I_ don't know what I am. …But I know I could hurt you. I _know_ I'm _dangerous._ I've seen! I've seen what I could do…" His face scrunched and smoothed as his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'd rather die. I'd rather you killed me, right here and now, than that you should let me live to become…like _that_…like _her_."

Noah watched the young face as Faolyn spoke words with aged eyes and a grim understanding. It was as if there were two of this man-child. One was a boy younger than his years, and the other was a man made old before his time.

"Listen to me, Faolyn. Listen." Faolyn met his eyes. "You said you didn't wish to hurt me. And look." Noah offered himself for observation. "I'm here. You didn't destroy me. In fact…somehow I feel better than before. Faolyn, you are stronger than this that would take you."

"I don't know." Faolyn shook his head grimly. "I-"

"I know." Noah was unshaken. Resolve and determination were clear in his serious eyes. "And if you need to be reminded, ask me. I'll tell you." He smiled, and Faolyn's chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, relief evident on his tired face.

Faolyn accepted the drink and wafers Noah offered and then lay back on the pillows.  
Noah pulled the blankets up around him and patted his shoulder before leaving the room. The curtains remained half-open and a small, single light was left on.

* * *

Upstairs in the room that for the time being had become his, Noah leafed again through the leather book. Carefully, respectfully, he turned each page. He stopped to look into a young child's face before passing on to stare, troubled, once more at the wild, angry image of the woman made of flame_._

* * *

Morning came and night went and circled once more, and Tarachande watched the man and boy thoughtfully.  
Without verbal agreement, Noah had assumed greater responsibility.  
He worked hard, seeming to have found a new store of energy. He stayed out of the old man's way but was always close to the house, stacking wood, clearing debris, and being otherwise careful not to wander too far while the boy was awake.

He was always watchful for the weary sighs and mindful of the dark shadows beneath Faolyn's eyes, and Tarachande was also mindful of his attention to these things.  
The old man watched how the younger held the cup for the boy when it trembled in unsteady fingers and took the spoon when it seemed too heavy.  
And when after a few days the boy was strong enough to follow the larger footsteps into the sun, Tarachande took note of how the man measured his own steps closer so as not to tire Faolyn. He saw how the man feigned his own fatigue to cover for the boy's.

The old man knew well that only at night, after the lad lay sleeping and calm, would Noah put on all the armor in his possession and take the sword and dagger gifted to him to go to the dark fields to hunt.

It was a dangerous thing, to wander alone in the wild under darkness. And yet Noah always returned long before dawn, before the boy was awake to miss him, with enough to exceed the need.

The door opened with only the slightest clack, and the footsteps would not have been heard if the old man had not awaited them.  
He watched the man enter the boy's room and lean over the still form to check for signs of life before carefully smoothing out the sheets and exiting the room with silent tread.

"How does he seem?" The old man spoke quietly, and Noah's dagger was at his throat before as quickly being swept back and put away.

"My apologies. I did not see you."

"Oh, don't take it badly, young man. It will help you stay humble and help an old man preserve a touch of pride." Tarachande's voice held a slight laugh, but he put a hand to his throat, glad that Noah's self-control was as polished as his reflexes were instinctive. "I was only going to check in on the lad."

"He sleeps."

Tarachande nodded, and Noah moved past him to the kitchen. The old man followed and watched as the younger man cleaned the greens and prepared the meat. "You've done this before."

Noah turned his head slightly but his hands did not leave his work. "Hunt or wash roots?" There was a touch of dry humor in the voice.

"I speak of being a care-giver. I see it on you, in how you treat him. It is not an unfamiliar role."

Noah had his hands submerged half to his elbows, but the water stilled as the motion of his arms disappeared.

"Your efforts have not gone unnoticed." Tarachande eased the tension in the room, casting aside the shadow that had suddenly risen between them.

"I did not ask for thanks." The shadow had left walls, and Noah's voice was a contrast of sharp and cold, soft and rough.

"Then you will be pleased. For I did not give it." The old man cast back contentiously.

Was that the slightest of smiles that tugged at the younger man's lips? If so, he hid it, turning back to his task with renewed concentration.  
"…Why does Faolyn not reclaim his strength? What is this illness?"

The concern and grief in Noah's voice moved the older man, though he'd not say.

"…I suppose you must know… Tis no true illness but more akin to a hereditary condition. He will not shake it. He will learn to conquer it or it will conquer him."

Noah turned, brows drawn together over narrowed eyes. "What condition? What do you mean, _conquer_?"

Tarachande's eyes moved toward the room where the boy rested and then back to the man who towered over him. "Shall we walk?"

Noah could not help but stop to see if the boy still slept before they moved to the outdoors. The morning light was just rising, casting rainbows of light through the strands of dew that twined through the trees.

Tarachande led when they left the house, but it was Noah who directed the way across the yard to a small grove of trees. From the shade of these they were able to see the light in the boy's room and observe any shadow that might move within.

"Well?" Worry made him impatient, and impatience made him more curt than purposed.

"You are acquainted with the power of the Mist? It is not foreign to you?"

Every nerve was on edge. "I know of it." Images of Vayne and what destruction lust for the power of Magicite had cast upon Ivalice ran rapidly through Noah's mind. These days of violence and death were not so long past.

"And what do you know of _Mistiks_?"

Noah tilted his head to one side.

"Of _Mistrys_?"

Subtly darkened eyebrows rose over eyes grayed by the shadow. "Of the mysteries of mystics I have studied."

"Phantoms of the Mist!" Tarachande was frustrated.

"Ah. You wish to share ghost stories."  
Noah's voice was deceptively unconcerned, but there was a change in his face. Tarachande knew he'd captured the younger man's attention.

"Not ghosts. Lost souls perhaps, but they are real. I'm surprised you do not know more, and yet, perhaps they are more known in the legends of Rozarria."

"What has this to do with Faolyn?" Noah was again on edge, and the old man calmed enough to perceive the younger man's lax attitude was false, as was perhaps the pretense of ignorance.

"There are different tales concerning how they came to be. Some of these rumors are inventions made to explain what cannot be explained; perhaps others are meant to divert from the truth. Who can say, but there are some threads of information that persist.

It is often said that the first of their kind was a nomadic Hume who became obsessed with the Viera and their connection with The Wood, envying the instinctive bond between that race and their surroundings. The details are blurred, but it would seem that the idea came to simulate the power by use of what we call Magicite, only not in the ways with which you or I might be familiar or at ease.  
No. This first joined together with others, and they made the Mist their life.

They ground Magicite and inhaled the fumes at their campsites, cooked it into their food, made concentrated potions to thrill the blood. They did all of this and more until the Mist ran through their veins like flame.  
If ever they saw the madness that was claiming them they did not turn aside but, indeed, embraced the rage and violence that took them.  
Though they were yet of the Hume race, they lost their link to civilization. But for all they inflicted upon themselves, it was the children who suffered most.

If the young were not abandoned when birthed they often fell into torment, being cursed with parents numb to their needs and dead to natural love. The parents nurtured in place of their offspring only that one dread passion that had cost them all.  
Of those children who did not die, most conformed, joined to their parents blindness as one clings to that which is familiar.

But there were the s_pecial ones._  
These were born with the Mist mixed into their blood, crying with a craving they could not understand, overtaken by rushes of fierce emotion and fiercer pain-the result of a choice not their own. And they were the closest to the ideal that the first had sought. Their instincts were like wild things. The very air around them is said to spark... and glow."

Noah's face was tight, his eyes like granite on Tarachande's face. The old man saw the hard eyes turn toward the boy's window.

"And yet it is the greatest irony that these heirs were hated most by their own kind, subjected to jealousy and covetousness of their natural gifts. Very few survived.

Some of these made their way as mercenaries or into legend as specters to bring terror to the innocent.  
But as for the whole faction, how many are left of the people none can say.  
They lost their love of home when they lost their reason. They became wanderers who lived only in shadow and whisper.

In this day, not many believe this band ever existed, much less that they would yet be able to survive. The wild lands are much destroyed. War and settlements have uncovered many old secrets.  
Yet some say that now and then one of the outcasts would join to a mate who did not practice the ways of their tribe, as this group might be called, and attempted to conform to normalcy.  
Their children were less likely to be inflicted, and, given time and with no further insertion of tainted blood, in their lines such manifestations would theoretically vanish.

However, there are other stories which tell of cloisters of non-infected younger descendants, ones whose blood need not ever be so fevered, whose pulse has been gentled by the weaning of time and by dilution of a parent of untouched blood, who seek to revive the old traditions. Some say they have banded together in secret places.  
I do not know. Who can say.

If it is true, they are fools.  
Mayhap they were not told the stories of those who did not die but were either used as weapons and then sacrificed, being far too dangerous pets to keep, or languished alone in prisons of stone.  
Or perhaps they have forgotten those driven to destruction by the anguish of the soul, without comfort tormented every moment by the longing they had made, called, and claimed as their own."

"_She_." Noah breathed the word, and Tarachande, hearing, was startled to know that the boy had offered this much.

"How did Faolyn come to be here?" Noah's face was pained as he stared toward the familiar room.

"...His father, or so I supposed it to have been, brought him. I'd treated a wounded traveler now and again and given medicine to a child ill. Things of that nature. Likely the man thought of this place as a safe haven, though I have a doubt it was the _boy's _safety he was concerned with. Whatever the reason, the boy was brought, looking like death lying upon the cart, as still as when you recently found him. I do not know the details of their story; the man would not tell, and the boy could not. Indeed, the child spoke not at all for more than the span of a year. I did not know his name for over two. Perhaps that is why I yet so seldom use it. What I know of his past I have learned by listening to his screams in the night..." The old man sighed sadly, thinking on it. "I learned to stay far from the topic of what brought him, so as not to disturb the child. More than once I thought to have lost him to that despair."  
Tarachande watched Noah's face. "He is…_different_…with you."

Noah's eyes went to Tarachande's and then again to the window as a form moved inside and a hand drew back the curtain.  
At once Noah was striding back toward the door.

Tarachande sighed. "Have a care, young man. It may be that you are in greater danger than he."

But Noah was beyond hearing, and would not have heeded if he had. Such was his way.

* * *

Basch stood a respectable distance away and off to the side, helm tucked under one arm, watching Larsa as he interacted with the varied guests.  
Some of them knew the lad well enough not to be taken aback by his intellect and spirit, but Basch could see the surprise in the eyes of others who had underestimated Larsa Solidor.  
It pleased him. It pleased him greatly, though he couldn't quite define why.

Truly, Basch took rare and unexpected pleasure in seeing the young man proving himself worthy. Witnessing a Senator step back to view the young lord with the slightest of narrowed eyes, wary and cautious, brought a sense of pure satisfaction.

Though Basch would not allow _Gabranth_ to show sign of it outwardly, inwardly he knew they were seeing evidenced what already he knew: Larsa was a kind and compassionate young man but also strong. They had thought his gentleness would make him weak; they were wrong. He would be a good leader. They were seeing what was to come.

The Senate had trimmed the package, but in the end the Free Trade agreement passed. It was a remarkable victory. …If only there could have been a public signing with Larsa and Ashelia. But the young Queen was occupied with matters inside her own borders and had sent an envoy. It was some disappointment to both Larsa, who would have been as willing to meet with Her Highness on her own turf if asked, and also for Basch, who could not deny the wish to see the young woman in her new post.

Not only the settlement of the trade issue was celebrated. Larsa had been good to his word.  
A care package for Archadian veterans and their families had already been passed, this unanimously after the Senate recognized how highly in favor were the people. There would also be a wall of honor constructed, etched with the shadow of a faceless warrior to stand in place of those who had died unclaimed.  
Basch felt a bittersweet sense of satisfaction. It was what he'd asked for. It was what was right.  
But nothing could erase the paradoxical truth that these warriors he now fought for were those he'd once fought against…

Adding to all else, even now the lesser Judges worked, sorting through prisoners- the higher priority cases to be given over to Zargabaath and Gabranth for review.  
Additional releases had been made, sentences adjusted for others, but there remained a list of names on which no determination had been reached.

Around the clock Gabranth had teams researching. Basch had hand selected members of the Elite to serve as a special task force specifically to delve into the backgrounds of these persons, but the process was proving tedious.  
And from time to time Basch felt uncomfortably certain Zargabaath wondered at the need of Gabranth to retrace his own information lines.

It was tiring. The days had turned to a blur.  
Still, progress was being made, and, after that one unsettled night, Basch had gathered himself and went stoically on.  
There was no time for self-doubt or for wishful thinking. Noah was gone, and it was on him to do what must be done.

Zargabaath, a goblet in each hand, interrupted. "Join me, Gabranth?"  
Basch started to decline, but the other man pushed the drink toward him.  
"Let us together drink to her. We can do that much. She'd have liked to have seen this day."

Basch took the drink, covering his confusion with slow, deliberate movements. She who?  
There had been few women in his own life. For some war seemed to fuel passionate desire, but as for him war had seemed the wrong setting for amorous notions. How could one mix duty and love?  
Yet, perhaps Noah had felt differently... Quite unsettling, actually.  
The prospect of stepping into a romantic entanglement had never crossed his mind.

Judge Magister Zargabaath turned from the sight of the mingling company and walked through the open doors to the balcony, clearly expecting his colleague to join him.  
Basch obliged under the knowledge he must play the part assigned to him.

Zargabaath was silently watching a flock of birds circling, soaring, and dipping in their winged journey. He remained silent for a long while, as Gabranth angled himself to be able to keep an eye on his young lord and one on the officer at his side.  
Finally the reserved officer spoke.

"I confess, lord Gabranth, I did not always share her elevated opinion of you. Though I knew her instincts to be most often true, she was, I feared, too quick to judgment. It was my concern her fierce determination would be her end. …And indeed it was, was it not?" He looked to Gabranth with a wry smile upon his lips. "And here lies an opportunity for me to say I was right."  
Zargabaath followed the birds with his eyes and reached into a pocket to pull forth a handful of seed, casting it across the stone balcony. At once the winged creatures swooped down, eagerly claiming their prize.  
"And yet I will not say, for though she was rash she was right, both in the matter of Vayne and of you." The introspective Judge turned his eyes upon his associate, studying him closely.

Basch frowned, his eyes narrowing under a furrowed brow as his mind raced, trying to place the context of the veteran Judge Magister's words. He was lost in this intrigue.

Zargabaath noted the other man's troubled expression, and a sad smile crossed his lips, "If she had your self-possession she might well have lived." He frowned and shook his head in frustration, "To draw a sword against Vayne Solidor-in the presence of his allies and abundant witnesses-how reckless." He did not see Gabranth's brow rise in surprise. "How utterly foolish. How very brave."  
Zargabaath smiled gently, a tenderness in his eyes that moved Basch.

"You loved her."

Zargabaath frowned once more, erasing the softness from his face, and then slowly he allowed it to return.  
"I did, in my way, though she did not often care so much for me, I'm afraid. Only at her convenience." He laughed quietly. "She was too spirited, too wild to be tamed by a man...as far as I am aware." He turned a rival's gaze on Gabranth, and Basch felt heat rise in his face. Zargabaath pretended not to notice. "Some would have found it strange to think of such a pairing, she the more established, as it were. But she had a preference for men such as you."  
He waved his hand as Basch shuffled from one foot to the next, acutely uncomfortable. "By which I mean, strong, loyal, bold. I do not care to hear that you were more than allies, and I will thank you to keep your silence. But I would have been blind to not take note of her regard for you. …Vayne was not blind."

Basch was instantly alert as he noted the hard shift in the Judge Magister's voice. Where was this going?

"She was doomed well before you entered the room, and I was, sadly, no aid to her. That you were made her executioner," the other man sighed as he spoke, "was a sublimely cruel punishment. That punishment was not hers but your own."

_Executioner._ Yes, so the citizens of Dalmasca had often called the Judges of Archadia.

Zargabaath saw the tension in Gabranth's face and looked away.  
"Vayne Solidor feared you. With reason. You had the Emperor's confidence. You were young Larsa's protector. You had power and were dangerously unafraid for yourself. One can only wonder...if she'd not had you to carry on the task, might she have taken more care with her own life for the young lord's sake."

Basch felt his breath catch as he unwillingly recalled Noah's desperate strike against Vayne, effectively throwing away his own life… _"Watch over him, Basch…" _

"_You_ remained." Basch offered his voice gruff.

Zargabaath's face darkened. "You have become quite forgetful, for one so young. When you swept into Mt. Bur-Omisace with intent to steal away the young lord, where was I?"

Basch turned his eyes to Zargabaath's face. He thought he knew the answer, but if he was wrong… Better to be silent.

Zargabaath ran his hands over the railing. "Ah, you do not wish to say? Then I will say, though I admit it is my shame. I was overseeing a slaughter. My loyalty was, is, all in all to the Empire. I could not oppose her, even in the form of Vayne."

Was there a warning in those words? Loyalty only to the Empire, _always _to the Empire.

But Zargabaath only held out a hand to his fellow Judge Magister.  
"I hold you no blame in her death. She was so sentenced. It was her fate. A grievous choice, to execute an ally or also die, thereby leaving the young lord without aid. Your obedience bought Larsa a little more time to secure himself, and that is as Drace would have wanted it. I am…_glad_ she had you… We'll not speak of this again."

"No." Somewhat dazed, Basch spoke the word belatedly. Judge Zargabaath was already exiting the balcony, rejoining the throng.

* * *

Standing upon a chair, Haleine Ranel straightened the shelves for the hundredth time, picking up novelty items and putting them back over and over again.  
Her eyes drifted back toward Kasan's studio thoughtfully. The door stood half-open.  
There was no one inside the shop…

Carefully, Haleine stepped down and made her way into the back.  
There were the tables full of half-finished projects, the crates of metal and supplies, the shelves of enhancing ingredients, and the door leading out back to the forge.

Haleine frowned as she stepped over a pile of scrap metal. "What a mess."

"Are you lost or found?"

Haleine gasped, and whirled, kicking over a box of supplies and scattering the pieces across the flooring.  
Dwen stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, glaring at Haleine Ranel with cool eyes.

"What business have you here? Is not Kasan gone to the Faire? I imagined you with him." Haleine's voice was sharp but contained, the hand that had pressed to her stomach in shock fell back to her side.

"Hm, yes, we started out that way, but Kasan had something to see to before we go, and I thought it a grand opportunity to procure a word with you, _Madam_ Ranel."

"I see." Haleine locked gaze with the younger woman. She was willowy, with large eyes, a well-defined facial structure, and cropped, fleece-like white hair that fanned out softly around her face in a wispy cloud and twisted into curls at the nape of her graceful neck. She was beautiful, really, and Haleine wondered if Kasan had noticed or if he only saw beauty in terms of metal and stone.

Dwen's frosty violet eyes hardened like glittering crystal and slid across Haleine's face and down her person, obviously returning the inspection. Neither woman showed sign of discomfort, if there _was_ any discomfort to show. They were evenly matched in obstinacy and will.

Haleine passed Dwen, slightly knocking into the younger woman's bare shoulder as neither made any attempt to move aside, and returned to the main floor of her business.  
Dwen slowly followed, her pace indicating that she felt no subservience to Kasan's step-mother.  
Haleine circled around the counter, allowing perhaps the first sign of unease by placing the casing between them, and turned her eyes to calculating the day's sales.

"It is convenient he has kept you on." Dwen's tone was haphazard, but Haleine's chin rose at once, her eyes blazing. She slammed down the receipts angrily.

"Heed the name on the door! _I_ own this business. It is _Kasan_ who must rely on _my_ good will for his keep and his position in this community."

"I see the name." Dwen's voice was mild. "Does it not belong to his father? Passed...is this not so? I hear it was a loveless marriage." Dwen trailed her finger lazily across the counter even as her words struck like darts into Haleine's breast.. "A sad circumstance indeed that you should maintain a home and business in the name of a man who loved you not and fill it with wares from the son who is no part of you." Another cut. "It is a blessing to you, Madame, that Kasan is more generous than most, for he would only need take his name and his goods elsewhere, and you would be left barren. Ruined. His innocence becomes your salvation _once more_."

Haleine had returned to her slips, her fingers moving through them over and over again, much too quickly to even make the pretense of reading. She struggled to control her breathing, trembling lips parted and eyes wide with the effort.  
Dwen was serene, watching the older woman's face with indiscernible eyes, and she reached a long finger out to disturb the slips.  
"Regardless of the sum you find there before you, I tell you this, _my lady:_ you are _nothing_ without Kasan. He is the most valuable of your possessions and the only hope you have of redemption. I trust you remember this and remember well-or all is lost to you."

The door shut with a peal of the bell and Haleine's fingers stopped their mindless pace. She pressed her hand to her side, shoulders slumped, and stumbled through the door that adjoined the business to her home.  
She did not bother with lights and did not stop for food or drink as she made her way to her room.  
Inside, she lit a lamp and turned to her bed but stopped as her eye caught the painting hanging on the wall across the room. Slowly she went to it, unaware of the stream running unchecked down her cheeks, and stared at the image through a blur of tears. It was from the first year of their marriage. That happy time when she'd believed he cared.

Enraged by her own pathetic weakness, Haleine wrenched the framed piece from the wall and threw it violently against another to her right. It hit and crashed to the floor, denting the wall and leaving the frame broken and twisted. For minutes she was paralyzed, bent, half-screaming, groaning, sobbing. But eventually the tears ran dry, the pain numbed to the dullness she'd come to know, and the anger retreated to its familiar place.

It was then she looked with regret on the result of her temper and knelt to gently take the piece up again. She rolled the painting like a scroll, secured it with a ribbon, and then carried it to a carved wooden chest that stood hidden beneath blankets and pillows in the far corner of her room.  
Carefully she lay the piece next to a bouquet of dried stems and beside a worn box. Her fingers caressed the lid of the box once, and her eyes closed briefly, but then she pulled back and quickly shut up the chest once more.  
The blankets and pillows returned to their neat place, and she sat the frame aside. It was destroyed. Maybe Kasan would repair it.

* * *

When Gabranth stepped outside to breathe in the cool air of early nightfall, his eye caught at once the figure leaning against the carved pillar, a guard at his side.  
When the guard saw the Judge he immediately acknowledged and stood straighter, stepping forward nervously. He cleared his throat before speaking. "I'm sorry, sir. This man says he has some business with you. He, uh, he refused to leave. We searched him. He's clean. I'm very sorry, sir. Should I throw him in a cell?"

"No. Thank you. You may go." Gabranth nodded, and the young guard eagerly vacated the scene, relieved to have not become the object of a Judge Magister's ire.

Kasan didn't move from his spot. He simply stared at the Judge with curious eyes.  
"Hm. Well. I wondered what it would be like to see you here, in this setting. Now I know."

Basch remained a distance away, cautious.  
"Can I help you?"

Kasan's features hardened, and a mocking edge slipped into his words.  
"No. I don't believe so."

Basch neared another step. "I'm afraid-"

Kasan pushed off the pillar and closed the distance to the Judge Magister, eyes narrowed like an animal viewing a threat-or his prey, "Are you afraid?"

Basch was vigilant and wary but calm. "I regret much."  
The artist scowled and his face flushed with anger.  
"And with it, any wrong that came to you."  
Kasan's brow lowered dangerously over his eyes, creating one dark line.  
"But this is a new day. Take my hand. Let us live in peace."

Basch held out his hand, and the anger withdrew from Kasan's features like a storm bank crossing the sky, leaving behind not sunshine and cheer but a gray melancholy that hovered like fog.

Kasan stared at the outstretched hand and then turned his eyes on the Judge Magister with a strange smile, "Someone once told me," he spoke slowly, "_'War is hell, and there are no angels there. But, if you survive long enough, perhaps you may yet see the day of their return.' _What do you think…Is it so?"

"Perhaps… Or perhaps the angels are always there, and one must only trust all the more through the darkness in order to see them." Basch thought of the sinking pit of loss he'd found beneath his feet all those years past when the word of his mother's death had reached him. He considered again the wall of despair that surrounded his heart when he was imprisoned and shamed. In the darkness of the memory came the light of other remembrance- the purpose that had made it possible for him to survive both, the companions whose own light had served as a path to guide him on.

Why this answer brought a flash of anger to the artist's face, Basch could not understand, but it was there, seething in every tense muscle of his face.

"Perhaps there is a greater darkness than even you have known, my dear Judge Magister _Gabranth_. Or perhaps these angels only appear to you and _abandon_ all else."

Basch watched the man intently, feeling acutely the animosity that seemed to emanate from the former soldier. Every word was filled with loathing and every gesture with scorn.  
But then, as Basch watched, the anger again drained from the man's face, and he put his hands to his head, pushing long hair back from his eyes. Kasan sighed.  
"I forget myself. I am sorry. And if I think on it, I must say what you speak is, in some part at least, true. For in my darkness I have occasioned to find such angels, though they were not as I would have supposed."  
A bittersweet smile pulled his lips up at one corner, and Basch's eyes lowered in grief for the sadness he witnessed on the other man's face.  
"…I came with a purpose I find I cannot fulfill. Forgive me. I am sure you are a better man than I credit you for. I have been told it is true."

Kasan did not ask to be dismissed from the Commander's company, nor did the Judge Magister attempt to stop him. He walked unhindered past the guards and exited the gate and only stopped when he'd gone far enough to be fully out of sight. Then stopping, Kasan looked around carefully and pulled the pouch from his pocket. He removed the heirloom necklace gently, his eyes drawn to the stones, and then returned it to its safe place and walked on.

* * *

Dwen met Kasan on the pre-determined street corner and smiled brightly as she fell into step at his side. "Off to the Faire?"  
Kasan nodded tiredly at his assistant and forced a smile that never touched his eyes. "To the Faire."


	8. Reflections

Noah smiled to himself, pleased as he watched Faolyn finishing off his second bowl of soup and dipping in the last of the third slab of bread.  
The boy was yet pale, but color was slowly returning.  
And not only to his skin-though it was nice to see the blue lines and darkened shadows fading to only the slightest tinge.  
His light eyes had lost the strange glow and regained the soft color.  
Even his hair was a shade less of white and one more of silken wheat once again.  
He retained his usual quietness, but both his guardians had observed as steadily, within the passing few days, strength built until he easily kept his place at Noah's side.

An unspoken peace had settled over the household with the boy's return to health, a change which the residents accepted with relief.

"You like the soup?" Tarachande asked the boy, a curious touch of amusement in his voice.  
Noah's head swiveled so he could glare momentarily at the old man.

"Mm-hm." Faolyn didn't raise his eyes from the bowl, and Noah's glare turned to smugness.

"You don't find it a bit _spicy_ or _thick_?" The old man's face was lined by barely contained laughter, and Noah's eyes narrowed again.

Faolyn finished and sat the bowl aside, contented. "It was good."

"You think? Hm. You really were hungered." The old man chuckled.

Noah flushed and filled Faolyn's glass with water. "Here."  
Faolyn downed it in one gulp and Noah, chagrined, refilled it with a sigh. "It's been some time since I tried soup. I'm sorry to see this attempt was no more successful than the first."

"Oh dear." Tarachande's eyes widened in mock fear. "That is a dread thought."

The look Noah gave would have silenced most others, but Tarachande only laughed. "Well, by all means, boy, weave us the tale."

Noah's face tightened, but Faolyn's soft eyes looked up to him and Noah dropped his own. Blackened hair fell over his forehead. "It was a long time ago… I was…" He looked up at Faolyn, and a gentle smile crossed his lips. "I was not much older than you, really." He sighed and looked away, continuing in a carefully casual tone. "I went to market, thinking to buy supplies for the week's meals, and went home to cook up a pot of soup for the evening. I simmered and stirred the mixture for the remainder of the afternoon. …Now, in my defense, I thought I was making wise, if frugal, choices at the market. And I would challenge anyone to find a soup so carefully labored over." Noah's hand was raised as he made his preemptive excuse.

"Go on." Tarachande tapped his fingers impatiently, mirth evident in his manner.

Noah dropped his hand, self-deprecation written on his face as his lips twisted in wry smile. "It was the best boiled water and weeds ever. ...I suppose in this," he waved his hand toward today's thick experiment, "I overcompensate…"

Tarachande nearly howled with laughter and was still laughing uproariously as he pulled back his chair and exited the room, wiping his eyes.

"I am not always so terrible a cook! I did get better! It's been…it's been some time…" Noah threw indignant but weak excuses after the retreating figure, but Tarachande could not have heard him over his own laughter, and Noah shrugged it off with embarrassment.

But Faolyn was quiet and watching Noah with observant eyes. "Why were these responsibilities yours?"

Noah soberly studied the boy's face and then broke with his gaze. "My mother" He took a ragged breath. "…was ill. And we were otherwise alone."

Faolyn saw the sadness that covered Noah's face. "I'm sorry."

Noah looked back to boy, and a gentle smile touched his eyes. He reached over to put a comforting hand on Faolyn's shoulder, "Oh, Faolyn." He sighed tiredly.  
The boy was too aged by grief already. There was no need to add to it with sorrow not his own.

A racket sounded outside, and they heard the old man muttering to himself as he went to the door. And then, "Faolyn! Lad! Come here, will you. You remember our old gatherer do you not?"

Faolyn frowned and slumped as he heard the voices toward the front of the house. Noah nodded encouragingly for the boy to go to the old man, watching as Faolyn followed Tarachande's voice from the room.

Noah turned to gathering the dishes and taking them to the sink for cleaning. His thoughts began to stray.

Why did the most precious memories sometimes seem as if they belonged to another?  
How could the tender, precious times that were held so dear feel so distant, be so difficult to recall, when other moments that he would willingly release forever refused stubbornly to go.

He would never forget. He could not.

His eyes took on a glassy stare as he shut out the voices and the scents of the present and saw a different time, a different setting...

How quickly and slowly the days had passed…  
_From that first time he had steadied her by taking her hand, to when he had taken her arm, and then finally had carried her from the bed to the chair._

…_And then the chair became his home as he sat watch at the bedside from which she would not stir.  
_It was as if the changes had come in the span of a day…and lasted the breadth of many lifetimes.

_Once her glass had spilt as she trembled. And then he fed her like a child, lifting the spoon carefully to her lips, mopping up the dribble that would escape from the corner of her mouth.  
_Even now he hurt as he recalled…

Through the window above the kitchen counter Noah's unfocused gaze caught the warm glow of early evening sun.

_The day had come when she had not the strength to finish pinning up her golden hair. In the days that followed he would gently brush the thinning strands, both darkened and salted by stress of illness. _

Clouds moved across the warmth, and Noah's face was shadowed.  
_Once her fingers had failed her as she tried to unbutton her over-skirt, and he had finished the job for her. And then he had learned to help her dress. Then came the day they'd put the proper clothing away and the simple robe had become her garb. _

_These were not the worst of indignities inflicted by this sickness.  
_Noah's hands abandoned their task, unable to go on.

_Yet he had served her as best he could. _

_The sacrifice had wounded him, but not most for himself he grieved.  
It was for her pride and honor and lost independence and, above all, for her smile that he mourned first above his own pain and lost youth.  
_From the other room a woman's laughter carried, and Noah unconsciously smiled. The sound had been familiar in his childhood.

_But there had come a time when the laughter too had been put away, and it seemed increasingly that she found it difficult to meet his eyes. And he had begun to wonder…Was she angry that he was there to witness her weakened condition, to share in her shame? He hoped that she knew he thought no less, loved no less, for this frailty. _

_If any change of his heart toward her had come, it could only be said he loved her more- with a bittersweet loyalty that embraced his own agony in order to aid her through hers. _

Noah's eyes closed tightly, but the scene played on.

_Bringing a warm bowl of watery soup to her bedside, he lifted a spoon to bring it to her lips and looked up to find her eyes on him. Almost they seemed clear, and his lips lifted in tired relief, simply glad to see the color there one more day.  
But her words, soft and broken, caused his eyes to fall and his own hand to shake. He had to pause to gather himself before he could go on.  
"I have two sons, and love neither more."  
He knew what she meant. …He hoped he knew what she meant.  
He wanted so desperately to ask, but did not, could not ask, "…And neither less?" _

_Morning had bled to night, and he had entered the room with a basin of cool water and a cloth to sooth the fevered forehead.  
His own reflection in the water revealed eyes that were so very tired, dark circles sunken beneath and shadowing a young face matured by grief.  
The chair was prepared for him at her side, and he took it without thought, smoothing back the dull, tangled hair with loving hands.  
She mumbled turbulently in her restless sleep, as so often she did, and pain shot through him at her suffering-and for his own. "Basch… my son…my son…"  
How faint were her words. And her hand trembled violently as it reached, groping desperately for the one she sought.  
His own breath caught in his chest, and he choked back tears that rose fiercely in his throat, shoving back the rebel few that threatened to overflow with work-calloused fingers.  
Suppressing his own sorrow, he reached for her hand to smooth the paper thin skin that seemed only a veil for veins and bones, bringing it to his quivering lips and then holding the hand carefully but firmly between his own._

"_Mother?" His young voice was a husky, choked whisper, and she was uncomforted, continuing to call and seek.  
Struggling to regain his composure, he stumbled to his feet, disappearing through the doorway and into the small adjoining room._

_The one that came to claim the chair was much the same as the one who had deserted it, and yet there were discernible differences: a change of clothing, hair rearranged, dirt smudged across the cheek.  
And when she called again the voice that answered was deeper and more carefully precise, yet there was no mistaking the tenderness in each word. That detail remained.  
"Mother, it is Basch. I am here."  
Her eyes had opened, glassy from fever and half-blinded by sickness, and lit upon the features before her. Her hand, sandwiched in his, rested easy.  
"My Basch," her lips had barely moved, but the name came in a gasp of breath, her unnaturally bright eyes on his roughed face, "How I love you."  
"And I-And I you, mother." The voice that answered was barely controlled, the eyes spilled their abundance, but she did not see.  
She had calmed, comforted by his presence, lured again to sleep by his low tone and protective attention.  
While she slept, a smile, the first seen in much too long, crept to grace her pale lips.  
And he sat beside her hour after hour, gazing sadly upon her fragile features, watching, listening-waiting.  
Fatigue would take him at last, but he only dozed lightly, waking to every movement or sound, and he would rise in the hour before dawn to disappear again into the small room and exchange his place with the one before. _

_It was the first time he had worn that face. It would not be the last._

The voices became louder, the sound disturbing at last his visions. He found himself staring at the reflection that came back to him from the glass in his hand. She had barely recognized him at the end. Would she know him now, if she were here? Maybe it would be for the best to believe she would not.  
He had failed her too many times.

He felt eyes on him and looked to the doorway to see Faolyn standing there, watching him, and behind the boy Tarachande and the visitors were approaching.  
Noah winked lightly at Faolyn in an attempt to chase away the concern he could see on his young face and exited the back door to avoid the old man's guests.

* * *

The Chocobo had deigned to return and had taken a liking to Faolyn, preferring to befriend the boy who offered him treats and smoothed his shimmering silvery-white feathers than the man who had captured him. Still, he seemed to be willing to honor the contract between the two, and Noah did not have to argue with his mount when he was ready to ride. Tarachande he'd not allow near, a mutually agreed upon arrangement.

Noah rode away from the manor and into the wooded hillside, seeking a diversion.

He rode longer than he'd intended, the Chocobo's powerful legs pulling them upward into the increasingly mountainous terrain to where they could sit and see across the distance, past sand and oasis.

Here in the shadow of Dalmasca they could look across toward the great mountain pass or onward toward the swirling Mist over a once royal city. Toward Archadia the air was clearer, and the haze in the air was green with the wild. But altogether this land was a deserted place, growing upon itself and from itself into some mysterious land of whispers.

How came the old man to settle here? Certainly he'd come before the events that destroyed Nabudis. But still. Why be here at all? Tarachande's accent was almost certainly Archadian. And his familiarity with house Solidor…coincidence or no? The Gabranth in him refused to accept chance.

So intent upon reflection was Noah that he did not at first sense the presence of danger until the large shadow blocked the small pattern of light within the trees and threw out a blanket of darkness. The Chocobo reared and Noah vaulted from his back, the sword coming to his hand before the ground had met his feet.

The Chocobo ruffled his silvery white feathers and ran as fast as possible away from the scene, deserting his would-be master to make a stand alone.

The giant creature roared, and Noah, without means of escape, banished reasonable fear and opened his arms to anticipation.

The beast came down upon its powerful front legs, and this first blow upon the ground broke the earth and sent boulders, hunks of dirt and clay, and small trees flying. Noah was thrown from his feet by the mere impact and hit the ground tucked and rolling, covering his head against the pounding of falling stones.

A heavy branch fell on his shoulder, and he felt a sharp pain but threw the limb away and came to his feet, sword ready.

This time he struck first, and the beast roared in rage as the blade cut deeply into its front right leg.

Noah felt the heavy, rancid breath upon him, and was for a split second overcome. The flicker of a moment was quite nearly enough to kill him. Only the height of instinct pushed him to move and avoid the powerful blow that was to have found him, but move he did. As the ground heaved once more, Noah rolled beneath the creature's body, putting all his weight behind the piercing stab to the giant underbelly.

The towering beast howled and descended, spewing a black rain of blood, and Noah rolled from under the shadow of steel-like ribs, with only a hair's breadth between him and death, and struck once more.

The creature fell, and Noah took a breath, but the beast was not yet done.

The trunk of its huge tail struck the earth once again as sparks from its eyes lit up the sky, and Noah felt his body lose gravity. His back struck the trunk of a tree, and his ears took in his own cry of pain upon contact while his mind recalled, unwillingly in this moment, the horrific, convulsing agony he'd endured as his body was broken not so long ago. After all, was this how it would end? Perhaps fate was determined to rectify the undoing of his death.

A fierce burning settled in his back, and he struggled to clear his head, knowing in the blaze of the passing moment that the creature too was struggling to survive. They could not both survive. This much was preordained no matter what else was to be.

The beast was pulling itself toward Noah, and suddenly Noah came to the realization that his hand was no longer tightly gripping the old sword… There it lay, on the ground in the shadow of the beast.  
The creature was watching him fiercely. It was a battle of wills. Would Noah reach the sword before the beast crushed him with a mighty swing of the head or tail or with the last burst of energy from its yellowed eyes?

The memory of Faolyn standing, worried, in the doorway as he'd left entered Noah's mind.  
Is this how he was to leave the boy? Without goodbye? Without explanation? Without comfort or security?

The sword was not so far away.

Gathering himself, Noah rushed the beast and saw the intuitive reaction of a victor in the creature's stance. The beast knew the Hume was weakened and powerless. The beast took strength from arrogance and whirled upon its prey-and Noah's blade found its mark, striking through the heart.

The eyes went dark and the massive body fell as Noah abandoned his sword and threw himself out of the path.

The earth shook above and below.

And everything went dark…

* * *

Faolyn was used to being ignored by the once gatherer. It wasn't that the young man had ever disliked the boy or vice versa. In fact the young man had at different times attempted friendly chit chat with the boy, but Faolyn was so entirely unresponsive that the young man had quit trying, overcome with awkwardness. Truthfully the strange boy scared the young man-and they both knew it.

Tarachande did not force Faolyn to endure socializing, and so the boy had, early in the conversation, slipped outside. Although he could still hear the laughter and conversation inside, he was now free to his own space, looking out over the hillside for the return of his new friend and adopted guardian.

"Well, father Tarachande, I suppose we should be going."

Faolyn's head didn't move, but his eyes shifted toward the house. As the voices drifted the boy followed the figures mentally through the hallways to the front exit. When he was sure they were gone, he reentered the back door and stood in the shadows of the kitchen, waiting for the impromptu party to be finally over.

"Oh my! Father Tarachande! Honey! Look! Look! A white Chocobo! I've never seen…" The young man was both boisterously overjoyed and breathless, and his companion echoed her husband's sentiments as the old man calmly began to explain.

"He belongs to a…new boarder. A hunter. I suppo-"

Faolyn raced past the old man and nearly knocked the young couple over as he burst through their ranks. Without pause, the boy met the flustered Chocobo and swung onto its back. The large Chocobo whirled at the boy's quiet words, and the pair bounded away into the hillside. They sudden departure left the young couple with gaping mouths, dumbfounded and amazed, and the old man with narrowed eyes, muttering something about, "…no good."

* * *

Noah had recovered and was busy reaping valuable ingredients from the beast when he heard the Chocobo's gait. His mount's return only earned a scowl for having deserted, but the sight of Faolyn astride the creature brought a deeper frown.

"What are you doing here?" Noah's concern for Faolyn brought him away from his task and at once to his feet.

Faolyn had just dismounted and had an arm tossed loosely around the Chocobo's neck. He was suddenly uncertain. "I-It's getting dark… Those silly people are gone. You should come home." The boy's eyes constantly went to Noah's face and then away self-consciously.

"Faolyn!" Noah moved toward him, and Faolyn's eyes took in the black liquid that covered him and the broken blade in his hand. "You cannot follow me when I'm hunting if I don't know!" Noah's voice was slightly raised, fear for the boy driving him. Faolyn's head ducked, but not before his guardian witnessed the quiver of his chin.  
Noah's voice gentled.  
"Hear me, Faolyn… I enjoy your company. And if I think the task is one suited to you, I am willing for you to accompany me wherever I go." His fond tone lifted the boy's head and spirit. "But you will need training and time to face some things on your own, and if you go out alone I am not aware of your need... I would not… I don't wish to see you harmed, Faolyn. Understand?"

And Faolyn did understand. Gratitude and loyalty replaced the shame and hurt that had for only a moment been. Noah saw the change and breathed a sigh of relief, his own heart eased with the boy's.

"Some of these creatures are quite fierce." Noah continued, gathering up the remainders of the slain creature. " Such beasts are not confined to one single area. Even the most peaceful place may yield some great, hidden danger. You should always be careful where you go not to tread recklessly, lest you stir up unwelcome attention from these unprepared." The advice was full of import, and Faolyn nodded his agreement soberly, but when Faolyn's eyes met his Noah found a touch of laughing accusation in the light orbs. Noah's lips tugged upward, "Well, it _is_ good advice," he muttered drolly. "Let us hope you will be wise enough to look past my example and heed it." And suddenly the humor faded from Noah's face. He quickly scanned that of the boy, and Faolyn saw the trace of guilt in the eyes that examined him.

Noah loaded a measure of the spoils onto the Chocobo, and then motioned for Faolyn to take his place as the rider. Faolyn resisted, frowning. "Are you coming?"

Noah nodded, gathering a few last things into his cloak and handing the bundle over to the boy's care. "I'll meet you at the cave. We'll store some of this there."

Faolyn watched him with a touch of doubt. "You _will _come?"

"I'll be right behind you." Noah smiled, and then dryly added, "Of course you have to move first."

Faolyn threw him one last, cautious look, and then encouraged his mount away.

Noah followed Faolyn's departure with his eyes, and then gathered up the creature's heavy skin, hefted it over his broad shoulders, took up the broken sword, and shadowed the boy's trail.

* * *

It took Noah longer on foot, and though he was glad the boy was ahead of him-and not able to see how he limped and grimaced along the way, he had unwelcome time to reflect on his increasing influence in the boy's life. "_Home_," Faolyn had said…_"You should come home."_

* * *

Inside the cave the two unloaded the bloody bounty. If there had been time, more could have been recovered, but what they'd brought with them would either serve the old man well or could be sold to buy necessities. A near disaster had turned into a boon. But neither had this much in mind as they stacked and sorted the spoils.

It was coming; Noah felt it. He waited silently until Faolyn's voice ended the delay.

"Your mother…did she get well?"

Noah's hands, busy with their task, froze and then forgot their intent.

Faolyn watched his guardian closely, noting the tightening of the face and the carefulness of his movements, and knew the answer before it left Noah's lips.

"No. She did not."

Noah made sure he was calm when he met Faolyn's eyes, and he was surprised to see an almost eager expression in the boy's eyes.

"What happened to her?"

Faolyn felt badly. He shouldn't ask questions like this. But he had to ask. He had to know.

Noah blinked, and barely heard his own answer, "She died." He saw the next question in Faolyn's eyes and interrupted with the answer, "She had been ill for some time."

The questions did not fade. Noah turned his back to the boy and drew his breath before again facing him.

"What happened to your father?" Faolyn couldn't keep the eagerness from his voice and winced to hear it.

Noah walked to the mouth of the cave and sat on the familiar slab. Faolyn followed, and together they looked down on the house below.

"My father was killed when I was only a little younger than you are now."

"In the war?" Faolyn settled beside the larger figure, trying to be patient.

"No. No war then. Just an accident. He was a merchant and often traveled…"

"Oh. And then it was just you and your mother?"

Noah bit his lip and felt Faolyn's perceptive eyes on him. He released his lip and smiled slightly.

"And my brother."

Faolyn's eyes were so piercing now Noah could barely meet them. But Faolyn's next words brought Noah's gaze there at once.

"Basch?"

Noah's eyes widened, his jaw went slack, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

"You talked in your sleep. It's okay. I won't say anything." Faolyn was worried about his guardian. The man was so pale and silent, obviously stunned.

Noah cringed. Years of secrets and deceptions to protect the Empire, and it came down to this…talking in his sleep. How could he ever face Larsa again?

"What did I say?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had to know.

Faolyn dipped his head, and then looked up with concern. "I don't think you said much at all when the old man was there. Just little things like, 'Vayne,' or, 'Basch,' or, 'Larsa.' Just names like that usually."

"…When the old man was there." The differentiation was not lost on Noah, and Faolyn's eyes cut away.

"Faolyn…I don't know what I said to you, but it could be dangerous for you to know too much about my life. I don't want to hurt you with my past. I have lived a life I do not want for you. I have seen things I do not ever want you to have to see. I've made decisions I do not want you to ever have to face. …Do you understand?" Noah's voice was rough with emotion, and he put a hand on Faolyn's arm.

The boy looked up at him seriously, and reached behind his back, pulling the sketchbook from his belt. He handed it to Noah with suddenly deadened eyes. "Yes. I understand."

Noah opened the book and viewed again the surreal pages.

"These are really beautiful." He managed.

"Do you think so?" Faolyn asked with a broken voice. "I think they are _horrible_."

The way he said it showed clearly his feelings had little to do with his talent.

Noah hesitated, unsure of what Faolyn needed from him, but then slowly turned the page.

"I like this one."

Faolyn caught his breath, and Noah could feel the pain in his own heart. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

"What was his name?" This was likely a greater mistake. He felt incompetent, but his heart pressed him to try.

"Naren." Faolyn whispered the name softly. "He was _my_ brother." His lips quivered, and his hand reached up to push away the tears that would come.

"He has a beautiful smile. And I love the eyes."

"Me too." Faolyn's voice was so low Noah had to strain to hear.

Noah took Faolyn's hand before it could reach to steal more tears.

"Listen, Faolyn... Whatever secrets you carry belong to you; I'd not intrude. But know that I would carry them with you, willingly. It is no burden."

Faolyn let his head sink to Noah's chest, and Noah felt the tears that were released.

When Faolyn was calm he spoke, softly but clearly. "He was older, just a year… He was my brother and my friend. I-I don't understand why he got sick…and…and I didn't… He just didn't ever get better. And then he…he died."

Faolyn's eyes were downcast and tear-filled, his voice drifting into whispered sobs, and Noah held him protectively, angry for the fate that caused the boy's grief.

"I'm sorry, Faolyn," he whispered softly. "I'm very sorry." And it was true. He was terribly, deeply so, all the more because he knew there was nothing he could do to make this thing right.

Noah brushed a thick lock of hair from Faolyn's forehead. "Faolyn, I know it does little to ease your grief, but Naren will always be a part of your heart. He will always be with you there."

Faolyn leaned his head against Noah's strong shoulder for comfort; they sat there in silence as the twilight shadows fell.

Noah turned the page to another drawing, one the boy had made of Noah himself, and smiled softly. "You know something... I like this one too."

Faolyn looked over to see the image and smiled through his grief, "I'm glad."

But Noah continued, "You know why I like it?"

Faolyn shrugged and shook his head, curious as his guardian traced the planes of his own image.

"Because it reminds me of someone I love. Someone I lost. Not to death but to time and distance…and doomed choices…" He looked over at Faolyn and smiled sadly. "My brother. My _twin. _Basch."


	9. Mirrors

Basch sat in his study rifling through the notes and reports gathered from his own personal investigation and that of his agents. Again and again he reviewed the names and intelligence on each, adding his own thoughts in the margins of the pages.

He reached over, adjusted the output of the lighting overhead, and stretched his neck and shoulders. He'd been too long sitting in this one place.

The words of Judge Magister Zargabaath replayed again and again, "There must be a determination made in the case of Meret Danali-_before_ it becomes an international incident. Note how he names _you _the arresting officer. His family charges unlawful detention. I can find nothing to either substantiate the charges or to exonerate him. As it seems this was your case, I am more than willing to trust your reason and yield to your decision."

Zargabaath had watched him through weary eyes as he awaited the verdict, but Gabranth had not been able to provide the definite answer they both sought.

"I will look into it, Your Honor," Gabranth had assured, and the thoughtful Judge Magister Zargabaath had rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"Do that, Gabranth. If we cannot prove a reason we must let this go before his family incites a riot. I am certain you had good reason for his incarceration. Kindly _remember_ it-with quickness."

These lapses in _memory_ were more than a nuisance. Basch worried that despite Zargabaath's seeming vote of confidence, he was becoming too aware of the difference. Possibly he marked it up to post-war stress or exhaustion, but Basch knew the truth. He had once known his brother well enough to finish his sentences and read the truth behind his eyes at a glance, but not even on the best day in the best of times had he ever been able to read his mind. No amount of rest or time would bring back memories that did not belong to him.

…If only it would… Then he would know the truth to many things…  
Things that had brought him from his sleep at night…  
Things that had haunted him in the long hours of darkness within the Dungeon confines…  
Things like…  
_Did she...suffer?  
Did she...ask for me?  
Did she understand…  
Where does she rest?  
Did any other come…to her waking?_

Basch shook himself from introspection with a shiver that had no part of being cold. These were questions that even in the darkest hour he had not been either courageous or cruel enough to ask of the first Gabranth, of his brother, and so he would never know.

And if he had dared ask, what would have been the return?  
_Why were you not there, Basch?  
Why did you not come when she needed you…  
When I needed you?_  
And to such no answer easily was found.

Basch dimmed the lights and left the room. Walking the vast hallways, he accepted without thought the formal acknowledgment of his position from each palace guard met along the way. Like breath, Gabranth was now become part of him.

He took the shortest route from this outside the palace walls and made his way along the winding side-streets toward the lights of town.

It was late evening, and the lampposts were lit. The mix of warmth from the street with the setting sun and early moon glow created a beautiful wash of color.

Drawn into the skyline, Basch paused. The wind brushed his cheek gently, and he drew in the scent from a nearby restaurant. It almost smelt like home… How far he'd come…

_The wind brushed his cheek, and young Basch looked to the sky as a flock of birds abandoned their perch in a nearby tree and rose on the tide of a cool evening breeze.  
He stood staring vacantly into the deepening canvas of color, past the seeping washes of light, thinking of her...thinking of home.  
For reflection this hour was best, when the softness of sun and shadow blurred the lines of reality and opened the door to gentler memory.  
In these times he could see her there, in the gardens around their home, pushing back a rebellious lock of honey gold hair and leaving traces of dirt smudged across her forehead above laughing gray-blue eyes. _

_The shadows deepened and lavender turned to violet across the wild horizon.  
This land was wild, the skyline uninhibited and free-as she._

_It was much easier in these moments to leave behind the images of destruction, of burning fields and destroyed homes and lives. It was easier to forget what was behind and to recall only what he loved and hoped for._

_If he were home right now… If home still awaited him…  
A smile turned his lips, and under the darkening shade his eyes lit as he let himself wander in wishes.  
If only it could again be as it once was…_

A loving couple too late noticed the tall Judge Magister in their path and knocked against him, bringing him from his reflection.

Basch waited uncomfortably while the couple profusely apologized and quickly slipped away.

How long had he stood staring into the distance, wondering now the same as before, how many long days had passed since he'd made this life his own.

How strange is the path that life takes…

His stomach rumbled, and he looked over his shoulder to the warmly lit eatery, crossed the street, and stepped inside.

The small establishment was abuzz with evening diners. Too late Basch realized the room was almost entirely filled with couples. Awkwardness filled him, and he took a step back toward the door.

"This way, sir. " The young host motioned toward the Judge, and Basch found it less conspicuous to simply follow. He avoided the eyes of the other patrons and made his way up the stairs behind the young man to a nook that overlooked the rest of the floor but was unseen from below. Basch was immediately more at ease with the increased privacy.

He turned his eyes carefully about the space, checking for exits, and was happy to see that he could not be ambushed from this location but might easily quit this space if need were to arise.

"I'll notify Ila that you've come."

By the name on the door, Ila Wittekind was the owner. Evidently the young man felt it necessary for a Judge Magister to be greeted personally.

"Don't trouble the lady," Basch insisted.

The young man shot a strange look at the formidable Judge. "It will be no trouble, sir."

Basch sighed and took out a crystal powered device, another gift from his new charge, reading over his notes on Meret Danali again.  
He had hopes that one of his agents would find something of interest about the family, but so far there had been nothing.  
Had Noah simply imprisoned the son as a threat to a powerful Dalmascan family not to try to influence the war with support of their homeland? He'd like to believe otherwise, but it was a possibility.  
Again Basch thought of Kasan Ranel and the conflicted expression of struggle against some unnamed bitterness and grief seen upon his face. Discouragement washed his spirit. …Yes, it was possible.

Basch heard the footsteps and turned to rise and endure the owner's respects.  
"Ms. Wittekind." He bowed.

"Judge Magister Gabranth." Her voice was serious, her brows were drawn together in a frown, and her full lips were pursed…and twitching.

Light laughter broke through, and her dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkled under the muted light. "Welcome back." She smiled. "I'll have them bring the special."  
Turning to go she threw back at him, "Do _not_ leave without saying goodbye! I heard you weren't going to have them tell me you'd come."  
Her voice was mildly reproving, but she still smiled as she added, "I have _my_ informants too."

Basch watched the young woman retrace her steps. She was very pretty but not in a showy way. Her long, wavy tresses were an interesting color. Something of ashen brown but touched with light. Not gold but a hint of bronze, shimmering and silken… He shook his head to clear it, muttering, "Ridiculous, Noah. Absurd. How many women do you ne-"

"Your Honor?" The server was back.

"So, how did you like it?" Ila appeared again just as Basch was finishing up the main course.

"It was very good, thank you."

"Here. Your favorite." She set a plate of berry pie and a steaming mug before him.

"Oh. Yes. Of course. My favorite." He cataloged this information as another detail in the history of the part he played as Gabranth and reluctantly took a bite.  
…Delicious! At least he didn't have to fake the enjoyment.  
When he said, "Thank you," it was more than being polite, and Ila, seated now across from him, watched with a pleased expression as the Judge Magister scraped every last crumb from his plate.

Finished, he looked up to see a strange expression on her face.

"You've done something different. Is your hair a little shorter? Lighter, maybe? Hm…you've changed your beard, haven't you? That's it…the sideburns…"  
She reached over and lightly traced his jaw line, and Basch froze at her touch.  
"And what about this?" She continued more softly. Her eyes, like pools of dark chocolate, were sober and gentle as she focused on his scar. Her finger touched it only faintly, but he shuddered.  
Her hand dropped, brushing his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "One of many, I know, but I am sorry to see it."

Basch dropped his eyes, uncomfortable with both the personal familiarity and the reminders of the night he'd been given that scar.

Ila laughed quietly. "Well, at least I can still make you blush. That much is the same."

He felt the heat in his face spreading and continued to avoid her eyes, but Ila sat back and did not persist.

Basch drained the last of the warm, sweet mixture and pushed back his chair. She rose with him.

"How much do I owe you, my lady?" He was careful to imitate his brother's velvet inflections as closely as possible.

To his surprise, she scowled and her eyes were truly angry. "Don't start that again, my dear Gabranth. We worked this out a long time ago. Let it be."

"My lady?" Basch was taken aback. He was missing another piece of this puzzle that had been his brother.

" Ila? We need you in the kitchen a moment." The young man interrupted, and Ila shot the Judge a look and left.

Basch motioned for the young man. "How much do I owe?"

The young man shuffled nervously, "I, uh, I'm not allowed to take your money, sir. As always."

He started to leave, but the tall Judge reached out an arm to block his exit.

"I'd like you to explain once more why that is exactly." Gabranth's voice was neutral, and the young man swallowed.

"Ila says you taught her to count back change and saved her job when she was just a kid waiting tables to stay off the street. Eventually she was made manager, and when the old couple retired you helped her secure a loan. She took over the place, and the rest is history. She's done really well, actually. We're all very proud to work for her." The truth of it was evident in the young man's face.

"I see." As always happened when conflicting information on his brother's life surfaced, the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach came back. He could only silence the turmoil by doing what was right in this moment. Whatever debt this woman felt she owed was to Noah and not to him. He'd not take advantage.

The young man gave Gabranth a strange look as Basch dug out Gil for his tab.

"Mm…I wouldn't do that, sir. She'll be really mad, and, uh, if I can be so bold…you've never really won that argument, have you?"

Basch held out a worthy amount to the young man, but the server shook his head and refused to lift his hand to accept.

"I'm not a soldier, sir. Begging your pardon, I hope you don't take offense, but my duty is to Ila. And these are her orders." The young man paused, and his eyes sought the Judge's face.  
"Besides…it wouldn't really be kind to hurt the lady's feelings, would it, sir? This is pretty important to her, you know."

No. He hadn't known.

Basch met the young man's serious eyes and frowned, and the young man suddenly grinned and walked away as if he'd been through this all before.

Basch considered leaving the Gil on the table, but the young man's cautioning words returned to him. He could endure the lady's wrath, but it was true, he did not wish to hurt her.

…How _much_ did it mean to her? ...He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

Basch put away his money and made his way to the door.  
Remembering her order he not leave without seeing her, he glanced back toward the kitchen. She was there, her hand raised in a farewell wave and a soft smile on her lips.  
Awkwardly he returned the gesture, wrestling guilt, and walked out into the night.

Outside he stopped across the street to look back into the warm windows, picturing Noah sitting in the seat he'd just vacated, talking with Ila Wittekind over berry pie and sweet milk.

Basch tried for a moment to imagine his brother teaching a young waitress money skills...

True, Noah would have been a good teacher. They'd both learned early, helping their father… But still… Somehow this isn't how he'd pictured...

Truthfully he had tried not to picture Noah's life here. He had thought of it always as his brother's choice and left it there.  
If ever he saw Noah in his mind's eye it was always as angry and ready for war, standing _against_ what Basch stood _for._  
How else could Basch have prepared himself to face his brother in battle, a day he'd known would come. And yet every time Noah had come to him so, it had pained Basch to have his expectations met.

Basch could allow the image of Noah's Gabranth standing dark and ready to defend Larsa, as he'd seen him toward the end:  
Combative and fierce, ready to die in his duty; bloody and hell-bent, a willing sacrifice for Larsa's sake.  
These were visuals he could understand and memories he could withstand.

Even Noah's death was easier to take this way. He'd died for his lord and had given Larsa over only when he knew…when he knew others could be trusted to take his place…

Yes, Zargabaath was right in that. Though the Judge Magister's words had been meant to describe the woman Drace's sacrifice and trust of Larsa to Gabranth, they could also have been meant for Noah's final trust to him...

The Gabranth in him saw the scenes playing out differently. What if he and not Noah had been the one standing alone at Larsa's side with enemies within as much as without…would it have ended the same? Would he have turned his trust to Noah at the end as his brother had turned to him?

Basch walked and thought, his eyes always alert and the instinctive part of his mind ready to react to any hint of danger.

He'd not always denied thoughts of his brother's life.  
There had been days and weeks and months, those in the aftermath of his own choice, when he had held onto thoughts of his family.  
It had helped him through the stark loneliness and the difficult beginnings along the way to becoming a warrior to think of his brother and mother as being together and happy, sitting safely around the dinner table or reading and talking beside the hearth.  
The first time he'd endured combat and known the bitterness of surviving as others died, he had sought comfort in the belief that those he loved and had left behind to follow such a bleak path were safe in each others company. He could not think otherwise.

And then everything had changed.

"Good evening, Sir!"

Basch nodded, and the guard was greatly relieved when the grim Judge passed him by.

Night fell silently and encouraged sleep, but sleep was something Basch had long since learned to do without. And so it was, long after the sunset glow and golden light from the lampposts had guided his steps back to his place inside the palace gates, long after he had bypassed the protected lifts to walk the great hallways, climb the maze of stairwells, and pass the Elite guards posted at every entrance to the level of Larsa's rooms, Basch stood, bathed in the moonlight slipping through the window, watching over his sleeping charge.

So small Larsa looked in the giant bed. Smaller than by day when his courage and heart seemed to give him weight and age.

The body of the Senate, who had first looked on Larsa patronizingly as a child, was now beginning to view him as a man.  
And Basch suspected that if they had thought they could _use_ a child, to be a man in their eyes meant they would have no qualms, if such capability to regret was theirs, of destroying him.

Larsa was so alone in these massive rooms. He had inherited space left by his father and brother as well. The solitary Solidor.  
And he _was_ lonely. Basch knew it, if Larsa would not say.  
And he would _not_ say.  
To say would mean putting that burden on his guardian, and Larsa would not wish it.  
This also Basch knew, and though Gabranth stood at Larsa's side throughout the day, adding his own strength and presence for the benefit of any who would dare threaten the young leader, it was Basch who bid him sleep well and watched over him until he was at peace.  
It was also Basch who greeted him at sunrise with a bit of poetry or a humorous anecdote from the brighter side of the Archadian street.  
And it was Basch who tried to remember what sort of thing he himself had enjoyed before the years of war had changed his focus and who would stop to buy some such item at Market to take back to his young lord.

Larsa had accepted the desktop statue of a Sleipner carved out of bone, the wood-burn rendering of proud Chocobo Knights, and a beautiful blown-glass Garuda, each with insistence that such gifts were unnecessary, but every time with a boyish eagerness in his eyes that told Basch these little unnecessary things were very much needed.  
It meant more to Basch than ever the silent guardian could say or would dare. The gratitude in Larsa's eyes drove him to do more, and with every gesture of thoughtfulness the depth of appreciation in Larsa's eyes increased. Each act fed the other, and both were pleased.

Gabranth would work to lessen the burden of state while Basch would do what he could to lessen the burden that came of being the lone son of House Solidor.

But Larsa's chest now rose and fell serenely, and Basch walked to the high balcony to look out over the palace grounds. His eyes were alert, seeking every angle for possible vulnerability, thinking as if he were yet the enemy. He knew there were guards posted within towers opposite this view, and his trained eye could make out the occasional silhouette across and below, their only duty to protect this particular line.

It was a strange feeling, when Gabranth was satisfied and Basch could take time to think on the incongruity, to know that Archadian soldiers had rifles and arrows and gunblades pointed at his head and chest, his life and the life of Larsa in their trust. Reversely, the fate of those men was at the command of Judge Magister Gabranth. If they only knew…

He sighed and left the balcony, triggering at his exit the ornate enclosure that shielded the space and added one more level of security to the young lord's keep.

If Larsa looked out now he would be seeing through heavy glass and bars. Yes, they were beautiful bars, wound ornately into such a pleasing design as to all but deceive the mind into believing differently, but they were bars just the same. Not so different were these than those meant to keep dangerous beasts within their cage or prisoners in their assigned place. And Basch knew that though Larsa accepted his imprisonment with grace it was felt.

The guards along the stairs to the palace holding cells gave their acknowledgments to Gabranth as he descended into the highly secure area. He wondered…had Larsa ever been here? Not with him.  
He could not either believe Noah would ever have subjected Larsa to this dark reality.  
The young leader would have come in an instant if the idea had been put to him. It had not.

Basch stopped outside the cell that held Meret Denali, and stared at the figure within. The same impenetrable glass and bars as kept Larsa secure also kept this man prisoner, though these had no use of attractive design. The accommodations were impersonal and sterile and stark. The prisoners were well treated, Larsa would so have it and Gabranth saw to it, but a prisoner is a prisoner; there was no masking the truth of it.

The plain stone floor and walls, mounted bed and bare furnishings, if such could be called, spoke unmistakably of the plight and punishment of the captive.

Here, open for viewing like an animal trapped and without the dignity of privacy, a man in prisoner's garb lay upon a cot, beneath a woolen blanket, and endured another long night as he waited for the decision of his fate. It was all in the hands of Gabranth…

There was no point in speaking to the prisoner. Gabranth could not question the guilt or innocence of one he'd himself pronounced guilt upon.  
If he had no charge to bring he would have to release his right to Zargabaath.

As if the man sensed the eyes upon him, Meret Denali shifted and slowly drew himself up.

Basch could have moved on or back from being seen, but he did not. He waited, hoping for some sign in the eyes of the prisoner, some look on the face, something in the manner of the man, to give a clue to innocence or guilt. In his heart Basch knew this was no way to make a judgment on another's life. Appearances can lie. A guilty man might seem innocent simply because he has more experience in pretending so, whereas an innocent man might be frightened into the tells of guilt. But he had nothing more.

Meret Denali, a man in appearance near the age of Basch himself, with short medium brown hair and a lean build, approached the glass and looked directly into the masked face on the other side.

Basch was once again thankful for the helm, but he was not comforted by the face of the prisoner. There was nothing there to give him any peace. The man simply stared back at him with a direct but nonthreatening expression, waiting.

Basch stood eye to eye with the prisoner, separated by glass and iron, for minutes upon end. He had one last hope of learning the truth. The leader of the last team he'd sent out was to report to him this very night. He would be here soon.

Basch heard the sound of footsteps and turned. The guard waited in the shadows, out of the prisoner's sight, for his commander's permission to approach. Basch instead went to him, but at once he was disappointed by the discouragement in the soldier's manner.

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. We have unearthed no evidence that the Denali family ever financed any attack on Archadian interests, harbored any fugitive from Archadian law, or, indeed, have any offense against the Empire. All financial records are clean. The family members are pillars of their community. By all counts they are lovers of peace. They…they only seem to grieve the loss of their son and brother… I can find nothing else. I'm sorry."

Basch sighed, and the leader of the operation shifted nervously, "Evidence could, of course, _be_ found…if that is your wish, sir?"

Basch's chin rose sharply, and the man took a step back, but Gabranth's voice was steady."Thank you. No. We will do with what we have or not at all. The truth should speak for itself."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." The soldier was unsettled, eager for the meeting to be done with.

"You have done as asked, and, as promised, you and your team will receive a bonus with your normal pay."

"Thank you, sir! Always willing to serve you, sir!" This time the words were clearly pleased. Basch had no doubt the team would be soon celebrating their good-fortune. If only he could feel such release.

"You are dismissed." Gabranth nodded, and the soldier acknowledged the Judge and disappeared back up the stone stairs.

Basch took one last look toward the cell. Meret Denali still stood there, shadowed by bars…

* * *

Morning found the Judge Magister having passed only a restless few hours of sleep. Before Larsa had wakened and had chance to miss his breakfast companion, Gabranth had sought out Judge Magister Zargabaath.

The commander had looked up expectantly as his colleague entered his offices. "You come to give reason?"

Basch's voice, Gabranth's voice, was flat. "Release him."

Zargabaath had shown visible surprise, and Basch knew in that moment that the seasoned Judge had expected no less than the soldier the night past. He had thought to be given reason, whether truth or lie, and would have taken Gabranth's word of it without hesitation.

"This is your final word?" Zargabaath questioned cautiously, watching the other Judge closely.

"Your Honor, I cannot at this time give reason. As you have rightly said, without reason we cannot detain. Release him."

"As you say, Gabranth. As you say." Zargabaath was not entirely assured but was relieved to have the matter resolved, Basch could see it. He felt no peace at all himself, only a terrible gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

But Larsa awaited his company, and he had yet to find a verse to bring.

* * *

Zargabaath watched the other man exit with a thoughtful narrowing of the eyes, and then he shook his head.  
"The war has changed us all. I only hope, Gabranth, you are well- for Larsa's sake."

* * *

Larsa rose to the soft shimmer of morning light, the smell of an impeccably prepared breakfast, and the beloved guardian who sat waiting for him with an open book and a welcoming smile.

"Good morning, Larsa. How did you sleep?"


	10. The Fault Line

"No, no! Not there! To the far wall! Come now, young man! Can you not move with more quickness?" Father Tarachande's voice was impatient and sharp.

Noah struggled to once more move the heavy wooden bookcase. It had become all the heavier after the fourth time across the room. There was a touch of sweat across his forehead and beneath the hair that now swept the base of his neck.

"Here?" Noah asked, wiping his forehead and stretching his bruised back.

"Hm. Yes…I think that will do. Now get the books back on the shelves. I'll return momentarily."

Noah patiently withstood Tarachande's prickly manner while Faolyn stood watching, his arms full of books and a frown on his face.

"You don't have to do this!" Faolyn insisted, worry in his eyes, after Tarachande had left the room.

Noah smiled casually. "No, I don't have to. But he did have somewhat to do with saving my life-although I give the greater credit to you." He winked amicably at Faolyn, who grinned in embarrassment for the praise. "And he has allowed me to shelter here. I have few ways of repaying. This I can do."

Faolyn's frown deepened. "He used to pay people to bring in just a part of the spoils you bring for free. And all the work you do here? I-I don't think it's really right…"

Noah left his task to pat Faolyn's tense shoulders. "It's okay, Faolyn. I'm willing." Noah craned his neck to make sure Tarachande wasn't close by and continued. "Faolyn…children grow up…young men grow old. I have strength to do things he is no longer able. If ordering me about makes it possible for him to allow my help, I can endure it." He did not burden Faolyn by saying, _I endure it for you._

Faolyn made a rough, disgruntled sound in his throat, and Noah laughed and pulled him into an easy embrace. "Thank _you_."

Faolyn pulled back and looked up at him questioningly.

"For wishing to defend me. You have a kind heart."

Faolyn flushed, and turned from Noah, avoiding his eyes by taking the stacks of books to the shelf.

Noah let his eyes follow the boy for a moment before he turned away and gathered his arms full as well.

Basch was always like that…

"_It's just not right, Noah! We have to do something! Come on!" _

_The air was thick with smoke, and there the woman stood, outside of her burning home, with one arm gathered protectively around two young children and a babe nestled in the crook of the other arm._

_A haughty man, clothed in garb the woman and her family could never afford, stood to the side, flanked by bodyguards with torches in their hands. _

"_You must stop this, please!" Basch ran toward the man and Noah followed, fearful for his brother's safety and unwilling to be denied his part in whatever would befall him. _

"_Stay back, whelp!" The man motioned quickly and one of the guards caught Basch midstride and brutally knocked him away. The two brothers collided and fell, a tangled mess of arms and legs, into the mud and muck and straw. _

_The guards laughed as their leader directed them take their mounts over the boys. The twins lay still, holding their breath that the mighty clawed feet would not fall upon them until they were safely passed by. _

"_Are you okay?" The woman came to them, the infant held tightly to her breast, her children hiding their faces in the skirt they were clutching. Tears had washed paths through the soot on all their sad faces._

"_Have no fear for us, my lady. What might we do for you?" Basch, all of nine years age, asked the question with sincerity and serious eyes, and the impoverished woman knelt beside him in the mud, holding the mortified boy, like her babe, to her chest, sobbing into his muddied hair as dark columns of smoke rose behind and above. _

_Later Basch would tell Noah the lady's story of how her husband's sudden ill health had left them indebted. Of how first her husband had been arrested and then the men had come to burn down their home because they could not pay. He would tell his brother, with concern vivid in his eyes, of how she feared for her children. And then Basch would pour out his own savings, and look to Noah to do the same, so that they might invest in the little family's future. They'd made their contribution in secret, but the woman had met their mother at market, where the lady had been working to sell goods the boys and her two older children had worked to gather, and told of the compassion she'd been shown.  
So moved their mother had been that she'd spoken to their father and between them it had been agreed that the fon Ronsenberg's would assume the debt of the less fortunate family, though the mother had vowed it would only be until such a time the debt could be repaid. The fon Ronsenbergs had amended that to be "repaid without hardship." _

_At that time it had seemed a truly small thing..._

_In those terrible early days…after…  
When Basch had gone and with their mother failing…  
When the crops and businesses had either burned to the ground or been looted by raiders, or their own countrymen-most in as much need as they…  
When they'd sold at a loss or bartered away all possessions of value that had not been destroyed…  
When their neighbors and friends had forsaken the ruins, gathering their families and fleeing to safer lands…  
And when the only person left who seemed not to suffer was that one person who had sent the unfortunate family to ruin and the fon Ronsenberg boys into the mud…  
Then, on that dread day, it had seemed a great sacrifice indeed. _

_Noah would never forget the mocking laughter or the victorious gleam in the wealthy baron's eyes as he turned away Noah's shamed, stumbling pleas. "No, boy! I have no work for you; my coffers will not open to your ilk." Then his face had taken on pretense of sympathy. "Ah lad, if only you had better chosen your friends! If only you had proved a more worthy steward of your own trifling resources, then perhaps you'd now have come by enough to care for your dear kindred…What a truly sad state." An exaggerated sigh was followed by a derisive grin, as all thin pretense of concern vanished. "Be gone, pauper-son. I have naught for your kind."_

_It was the first day Noah had ever truly tasted hatred. It was the first time in his life he had wished, with trembling fury, for a weapon of war; later he'd been glad of his lack of the same-for his mother's sake. Who would have cared for her if he had been taken prisoner or killed?  
But he'd never been sorry that Basch had wished to help the small family. It was an act of kindness that had meant all the more when the family, reunited and back on their feet, had come to console them as their own family began to splinter at the death of their father.  
That other family had moved on before the invasion, and no one knew where they had settled. Noah was content not to know. It was too hard a thing to wonder if the children they had befriended had grown to be his enemies…_

An instinctive realization that something had shifted brought Noah back to his task as a mound of books Faolyn had stacked became overbalanced and slipped from their perch on the shelf above him. The volumes pushed a heavy, ornate vase off the edge as they gained momentum, plummeting toward the floor. Noah instinctively dove for the vase, cradling it in one hand just before it hit the wooden floor of the study, reaching to catch and steady the floor lamp that was rocking on its base with the other hand, ignoring the books that crashed down upon him.

Faolyn gasped, "Oh no! I'm sorry! Are you all right?" The boy was immediately beside him.

Noah felt his back, the same place he'd hit the day before, burning. The pain took his breath for a second and then eased. "It's okay, Faolyn. I'm fine. Mm…how's the vase?"

Faolyn took it from Noah's hands and turned it around carefully. He looked down at his guardian with relieved eyes, "It's not broken!"

Noah exhaled sharply and rolled to his feet. "Good!" He looked at the strewn pile of old books and grimaced lightly at Faolyn, "A little help?"

Faolyn grinned, nodded, and began scooping up books and straightening the rumpled pages.

Noah returned the boy's smile, his heart warmed by the pleasant company. Although in Archadia he had made a place and done all he could to fill it, truly it had been a long time since he felt he belonged. It was a long time since he'd felt it was all right to belong…

Noah picked up a heavy volume to return it to the stack when a handful of pages scattered across the floor. He stooped to reach for the papers, and at once his sharp mind grasped what he was viewing. The particulars were hidden in a web of jumbled sheets, but even at first glance he could see maps and charts and letters and…

Noah's hand stopped on one page. He moved it to the side, eyes narrowed as his mind gathered the information at his fingertips.

"I'll take those. Thank you." The old man was suddenly in the doorway, striding purposefully toward the younger.

Noah was not startled by the interruption. He looked up to Tarachande from where he sat on the floor, eyes scanning the old man with a wary mix of caution and question.

The old man's eyes were hard in return, and his voice was cool. "Come now, young man…"  
He said it mildly enough, but there was a touch of something in his voice that caught Noah's attention. Gabranth knew a threat.

Faolyn took up the remaining books and placed them on the shelf, and his movements drew Noah's attention toward him. When Noah looked back to the old man he saw that Tarachande's eyes also had moved to the boy. Noah silently handed the papers to the old man, and the aged eyes held a strange glint that reminded Noah of the man who had laughed in his face and turned him away that fateful day...

* * *

The three ate their evening meal quietly. Partly this was due to the fact that Faolyn had made tasty omelets from a Cockatrice egg Noah had brought back from a hunt. The omelets were loaded with cheese, vegetables, and meat and accompanied by toasted bread, seasoned and buttered. It was a meal hearty enough to satisfy the ravenous and silence their hungry tongues.  
But there was more to the muted atmosphere than appetite.

The old man seemed to have enough of the awkward quiet and found a need for useless words, talking about the visit from the newlyweds while the others silently ate.  
"The young fools intend to sell goods, but I would venture they will end up spending more than they make."

"What kinds of things will they have at the Faire? Do _you_ know?" Faolyn asked the question of Noah and not of the old man. He was not so much interested in the Faire as he was in enticing his guardian into conversation. Noah had not been the same since the afternoon, and Faolyn worried at the brooding stillness that had so quickly fallen upon him.

Noah rearranged the mangled and dissected remnants of the omelet with his fork, "Oh, all sorts of things, as I recall. Artisans from all over would gather to sell their wares and put on exhibitions of skill. You could buy armor and weapons or clothing and various trinkets. There were even players: minstrels, poets, and mummers. It was all very festive. I've not been since I was a boy myself, and I believe the war extinguished the festival altogether for a time, so I cannot guess how large this gathering will be…"

"Still…it sounds exciting." Faolyn's voice was shy and carried a bit of a far-away quality.

Noah's moody eyes turned thoughtfully to the boy's wishful face, and a touch of a smile slipped to his somber lips. "He could use some new clothing…" Noah's voice remained neutral and cool as he lightly posed the suggestion. His shadowed eyes momentarily lit on Tarachande's face before turning away.

The old man saw the steel in the blue-gray and the fire lit within the shielded orbs. Tarachande glanced away from the younger man, ill at ease, and then looked to the boy. Faolyn was every hour stronger. There was little hint left to mark his recent brush with mortality. And yet it was somewhat surprising that the child would even be interested in such an event. Always Faolyn had seemed content with, even wishful of, their solitude.

Tarachande looked again to Noah, who this time did not turn his head to meet the old man's gaze. Even so, the old man could see the tension in his set jaw and in the lines of his shoulders. The younger man was aware he was being scrutinized.  
…Many things had changed since this stranger, this _storm bringer_, had invaded their seclusion.  
And now, come blessing or curse, the boy would no longer be satisfied with their old ways.

"We will all go. _Together_." Tarachande's voice held a warning.

"As you wish, of course." Noah spoke softly, and Faolyn was concerned for the grieved darkness he saw in his guardian's features.  
As if Noah sensed the boy's eyes, he turned his own to meet Faolyn's and smiled, trying to alleviate the anxiety there. Faolyn returned the smile, knowing full well that it was given for his benefit alone.

"I will prepare for our journey." Noah pushed back his chair and stood, leaving his meal unfinished.

"I'll help you!" Faolyn was at once by his side, but Noah turned his eyes to the old man.

"With your permission…my lord." There was a new formality in his words, a reserve that had not been even that same morn.

Faolyn's eyes were hard on Tarachande's face, and the old man did not miss the accusation there or the way he stood to full height, defensive at Noah's side. The boy had chosen his loyalties-that of all was most clear.

"Go! Go!" The old man scowled and waved his hands impatiently, bothered, as he watched the two exit the back door.

Alone, Tarachande chided himself...  
If only he'd left the study locked, as was norm.  
If only he'd not asked the young man to move the blasted shelf! It had been fine where it was.  
He walked back to the study and sat down in one of the worn leather chairs, taking the folded papers from the pocket of his robe to read the words writ in a familiar hand. Words and writing he knew by heart.  
_"Dearest Uncle…"_

* * *

"Your move." Larsa's eyes danced as he sat patiently, waiting for his guardian's decision in their strategic game.

Basch studied the pieces longer than he had need. His years in the war, both as a soldier and as Captain, had given him a keen eye for the strengths and weaknesses of his enemy. Yet Larsa had proven to be quite a worthy opponent with an interesting way of taking the less direct approach to victory.

Always Larsa surprised and pleased Basch as he continued to show that there was more to this young leader than the naive child others so often had assumed the youngest Solidor to be. Here was proof that hopefulness need not equate to blindness.  
"That was a very clever maneuver, my lord."  
The voice was his own. There was no need of disguise alone in Larsa's quarters.

Larsa smiled boyishly, "Vayne always encouraged me to look for the more subtle paths. He would always..." Suddenly the young Emperor's smile faded and his eyes became grim.. He looked to Basch in distress, "I am sorry, Basch. I forgot myself."

Basch reached across the table and put a hand on Larsa's forearm. "Larsa, for your regret there is no need."

But Larsa was not consoled. Worry and remorse mixed in his sensitive eyes.  
"Well I know Vayne was your enemy and brought to you great sorrow. I did not wish to remind you of the past."

Basch's eyes lowered as he struggled for what to say. Larsa's words had unsettled him somewhat. _"I did not wish to remind you of the past."_ These reminders of the past he had himself so often tried to avoid.  
It was becoming more difficult with each day…

When Basch opened his mouth to speak he was as yet still uncertain what he would say. Yet somehow the words came. "Larsa, never repent the love you have for your brother's memory. Let those kinder reminders comfort you. And have no fear of speaking to me of such things. I would that things had ended differently-for us all. I would lord Vayne had been willing to make peace. …I would have lent my hand, no matter what had been, for the good of Ivalice. And I will do whatever I can to now help you believe this."

"I do believe you, Basch." Larsa's sincerity was clear. "You are here, are you not? And I know it is no simple thing. I thank you, for my sake, for our people's sake, and for…" His voice softened with compassion. "And for _your_ brother's sake, my friend. I have not forgotten that I am not alone in grief."

Basch looked down at the smaller hand that clasped his. Always Larsa found a way to comfort him when it should be the other way. But he'd known it would come to this. They shared a bond of loss and of wounded love. Separation of loyalties, personal disenchantment, and feelings of betrayal…these were a common ground Basch shared with Larsa.

Basch remembered the first time he'd found himself with these injured sentiments.  
They were just children…

"_Look, Basch! It's a fire! …Those men...Basch? Basch! What are they doing?" Noah's startled response had turned to confusion and dismay as their young eyes took in the disgraceful scene._

_Even in Landis, even in those early days of innocence, there had been those who cared less about their fellow man than their riches. Their father had said, "In every land, in every race, there are those who do evil and those who do good." But standing there, that painful day, watching the flames rising to destroy all that their neighbors had to their name, it was hard to believe any heart could be so cruel._

_They had run to help, but not gotten far. Their strength had not nearly matched that of the guards, and in the end he had only been able to stand as the woman cried. Basch could even now almost feel her tears against his chest. …A memory that made him self-conscious. _

_But Noah had not remained still… He had wandered away after the children, who, unnoticed by the weeping mother, had left her shadow and were slipping back toward the fire. Basch had at first been able to see and had witnessed Noah grab the arm of the little girl, had seen her striking him repeatedly, trying to break free, as Noah frowned and spoke to her words that Basch could not hear. And then Basch had been unable to see anymore as his view was obscured by the smothering embrace.  
This until the little girl had cried out in anguish. "Give me my baby!"  
It was then the woman had turned and called out in fear, seeing her young standing too close to the flaming structure. There was the young girl, holding a badly damaged doll. And there was Noah, beside her, covered in soot, clothing and hair singed, looking at Basch with a mix of defiance and embarrassment and guilt. _

_Noah wouldn't say what had happened, had been stubbornly unwilling to explain the little girls angry tears or his appearance, even when they'd returned home and successfully crept up the stairs to avoid their own mother's eyes.  
He'd refused to bathe with Basch, as was still their custom at that young age, and Basch had observed him trying to dab ointment on his hand and arms. How Noah had come by the burns he would not say.  
And when Basch had tried to convince his brother to combine their savings to help the impoverished family, Noah had startled him by balking. He had in plain fact absolutely refused to give more than a certain part. Though Basch had tried to reason to his brother's conscious and had pleaded on his sympathies, Noah had fiercely held his ground, aggravating Basch's bruised ribs by shoving him aside and running out of the house alone with the leftovers of his savings._

_For a week afterward they'd barely spoken, though they shared a room, their own chores, worked together to help gather for the unfortunate family, and sat side by side at the dinner table, unable to fully ignore one another's existence.  
Basch had been greatly hurt and offended that his brother could be so selfish.  
And Noah had been wholly anti-social, glaring at him as if he dared Basch to question his actions, his tense stance showing he was ready to fight it out if his brother pushed the issue any further. _

_Their mother had talked to them gently about the importance of working out their differences and had compelled them to at least politely acknowledge one another before they went to bed each night.  
But who knows how long the standoff would have lasted if their mother had not ran into the other lady at Market that day…_

_The woman had explained what Noah would not… How her daughter had been determined to save her one and only doll from the fire, and how Noah, unable to dissuade the little girl, had instead gone through the window of the girls room himself, braving the dangerous heat, smoke, and spreading flames to snatch the treasure… But it had been too late. The stuffed, cloth doll, though not yet reached by the flames, had still been charred beyond repair.  
…And then the little girl had come to her mother the very next day, where they were staying in the sanctuary, with a brand new doll in her arms...  
"It's not really my baby," the little girl had solemnly explained to her mother, "but that boy told me she needs a new mommy, so I will love her." _

_When their mother, who worried over the rift between her sons, had taken Basch aside privately and explained what had truly happened, herself overwhelmed by dread thoughts of what might have become of her young sons at the violent scene, she had cautioned Basch not to embarrass his brother with what he had learned.  
Basch had promised and was good to his word. He never told Noah that he knew how the other portion of his brother's money had been spent or that he knew how Noah had earned the bruises and burn marks. He had just approached Noah as if he'd forgotten their argument, and his twin had seemed fully relieved to have the entire experience behind.  
Within the day they were back to laughing and playing together, comfortable and comforted in each other's company, as if nothing had happened at all._

_Still…the question remained…and had disturbed him more than once since...  
Not least during those long days and weeks and months caged, when he fought the whispers of the past to keep hold of hope for the future…  
Through the tortured expanse of days when time lost its meaning and his heart yearned to stop and ease his suffering…  
In those days when he both longed for and despised the dread and dear sound of his brother's steps drawing ever closer, the resonance drawing his own spirit from the crushing depths, the beating of his heart echoing with the familiar footfalls through the chamber of iron and stone…  
The question…Why had Noah not simply trusted him with the truth?  
How could it have been that his brother, who should have known him best of all, had not known Basch would understand?  
And the other side of the question in the echo returned…  
Was it too hard a thing, Basch, to say, "sorry," when you found you were wrong?_

Basch pressed Larsa's hand. And then his eyes became even more serious than before.  
"Larsa, please do not withhold speaking of your brother or father, or of any that you have lost, for my sake. I am honored to listen, as I am glad to stand at your side."

The quiet thanks in Larsa's eyes was clear.

Basch moved the pewter statue of a Knight against Larsa's Emperor and smiled.  
"It is your move, my lord."


	11. Love, Hate, or Necessity

Dwen stood beside the tent, behind a table, her white hair wild with curl and luminescent against the fallen darkness and lantern glow. The moonlight made her skin shimmer, and when she turned her violet eyes on Kasan they were bright, like iridescent crystals.

All across the clustered hills colorful tents had been raised, their banners softly rippling with the gentle breeze of early nightfall. Even now the air was full of life and laughter. Cheerful music played and happy voices were raised. Children ran along the paths with snacks and trinkets.

It was a diverse mix of people, from peasant to soldier-the Dalmascan guard made a light presence as if to dissuade any disturbance that might arise within this mingling in the wake of war. If this bothered Kasan he had not openly said.

Since their arrival had been belated, the best sites were claimed, and Kasan had been left the task of setting up their encampment in the best location possible for a small makeshift forge, taking advantage of the terrain to choose a spot where best to block the wind. As they'd come with only what the two of them had carried away from the shop, it had been necessary to buy from and barter with the locals for additional supplies to fully set up camp, and Kasan had ruefully predicted their hastily planned excursion to be an expensive one. But he now had a workable area to run an exhibit of his work and already had awed bystanders by creating a few smaller pieces.

While Kasan had mainly gathered from his studio rough materials and tools for the creating of new items, Dwen had thought of instant sales. Haleine would be angry when she found that Dwen had managed to confiscate every last one of the Kasan Ranel swords left in the shop, including all he'd completed for her list of orders, and as many of the Kasan Ranel signature baubles as she could gather into her pack and pockets. He'd not told her to do this, but had been privately amused by her secreted wares. He did not go out of his way to antagonize his step-mother, though she did nothing to make life easy for him, but a part of him, a part he tried to hold back, was pleased to think of her impending frustration.

The festival would continue for weeks, if all went well-that is to say if the weather held and if the people came and if the artists found themselves with a reasonable and continuing profit to be had. In fact, this was how the dwindled village had first come to be, and perhaps the very few remaining locals hoped that this again might be how the community would be resurrected.

Dwen turned her eyes to Kasan, watching him in the dancing shadow of fire. His long dark-brown hair was cinched at the nape of his neck with a piece of rope, and he'd covered his scars with a sleeveless leather tunic. When he worked over the open flame or shaped and refined blades to sharpness he wore heavy leather gloves, but at the moment he had instead traded them for lighter weight, fingerless ones as he finished a small creation at his workbench. This practice exposed his fingers to calluses and cuts when he chiseled stone and hammered or cut pieces of metal to create delicate pieces over a lesser flame. And yet he insisted he found attempting to manipulate these small objects in full gloves cumbersome and only wore them when safety uncertainly dictated.

He lifted his eyes and caught Dwen looking his way. "Hey, help a guy out! What am I paying you for, to charm unwitting customers with your smile?" His eyes laughed. "Come to think of it…that might not be such a bad idea." He grinned and gave her a teasing wink, and Dwen couldn't help but return his playful smile.

"Oh, you _are_ paying me? The way you've been talking I wasn't sure. …Idiot." She contended with him lightheartedly, and he laughed out loud. It was the most carefree she'd seen him in the weeks of working at his side. It was as if being removed from the shadow of Archadia and his father's name had released him from invisible chains and bars. Or maybe it was just the excitement of the Faire. Though he tried to seem calm, he was like a child in his enthusiasm. He was also nervous, hoping to be, and fearful not to be, accepted in his skill by both the people and the other artists.

"This is beautiful." Dwen smiled as she looked down at one of his creations-one removed from the Ranel shop under Haleine's very eyes. Backed with leather and lightly padded with fleece, the arm guard, skillfully shaped, displayed exquisite filigree depicting trees, leaves, and birds in flight. Altogether the image could be seen as a woman's face amid flowing hair with shimmering stones inset for eyes. Beauty and function.

Kasan smiled, pleased by her obvious admiration for his work. "Then it's yours."

Her violet eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly, "No. I didn't mean-"

"I know. But how does it look for my own assistant not to be wearing any of my designs? People might say you don't like them…" He feigned hurt, and she smacked his shoulder.

"Fine." She tried to keep her lips angry, but they betrayed her, creeping into a smile as he fit the piece to her arm.

His rough fingers grazed her hand as he fastened the distinctive guard to her right forearm, and she shivered under his touch. Kasan pulled his hands back like he'd been burned by the fire and turned away. "Sorry." He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and turned his attention to the unnecessary task of reorganizing his work bench. Dwen's smile and the luminous glow of her brilliant eyes faded-like a rain cloud had covered the sun.

* * *

Faolyn lay upstairs in his bed. The house was dark save for a single light in the study.

Tarachande looked up from his chair as he felt a presence in the doorway.

Noah stood considering the old man quietly, that same reserved, watchful look on his face as earlier.

The old man was not surprised to see him; it had been expected. He met Noah's guarded eyes directly.

"Well? You have something to say?" The old man's tone was as careful as Noah's manner.

"What _should_ I say, my lord?" Noah asked quietly.

Tarachande growled. "_Do not_ so address me!"

"And how would you prefer-"

"Call me by whatever name pleases you, but do not speak to me with such formality."

Noah's eyes turned away. He remembered the conflicts between them in the early days when the old man had proclaimed himself King or Emperor of this place.

The old man laughed cynically. "Did your master break you so well as to bind your tongue?"

Noah's head rose. His eyes were like dark clouds in a turbulent sky, but though his jaw flexed and his lips tensed he was silent.

But the old man seemed to quickly regret. "Ah, mind not the sharpness that comes from an old man's frustration." He might have added _and fear_ but did not. "I am no man's master."  
Tarachande looked to Noah pointedly and then continued in a peeved tone.  
"In any event, I would like to avoid building upon Faolyn's conviction that you are ill used at my hand. Somehow it seems I require your help to this end."

Noah's eyes softened a shade, "I do not intend to hinder your affection for Faolyn with my presence."

The old man gave out a bark of aggravation. "I did not say that any fault for the boy's perception lies with you. Likely the child is right. I concede I have never quite grown accustomed to this way of life. It is a temptation, having a strong back and a willing hand near, to seek to add to my own comfort. I'll not deny." The confession was given curtly and with an unapologetic air.

Noah thought of the quarters of Gabranth in Archadia with its dark, heavy carved moldings and solemn, imposing furnishings.  
The stern armchair where once in a great while, as precious time might allow, he would read alone by flickering candle light before he made a final sweep of the palace or walked along the parapets, scanning the grounds below before he turned his eyes to the distant sky.

Always just slightly cool, always furnished with just so many pristine towels and fine, fresh sheets.  
Neatly pressed, identical changes of clothing, waiting for Judge Magister Gabranth every day.  
Armor polished by his own hand. Swords as carefully kept gleaming in sharpness.  
Soldiers at the ready to follow his commands as they were given him by his masters.  
Libraries with walls of knowledge and research materials available.  
Airships standing by to whisk the Judge Magister and his forces to whatever locale became necessary at whatever hour.  
Spies secreting whispers and carrying threats.

And Larsa-never to be made aware of all that was silently done to allow him to taste freedom with safety.

Larsa was cared for. There was no need to now lie and say he missed that life and the need to stay one step ahead of foe and so-called friend…  
So careful to be silent and swift and vigilant in all that must be done or face death, and not only for self, as consequence…  
So acutely aware of the ever present threat within…  
What was behind him, in that place, that he would wish returned?  
A larger chamber? A keener blade? The authority to command soldiers to war and prisoners to death?  
No, if Larsa was safe…and if Basch was content...it was well.

"You came to say something, young man. What is it?" The old man was testy once more.

Noah remained silent for a long moment, and when he spoke it was grimly, as if the thing pained him.  
"I have made Faolyn a promise that I intend to keep, and yet… I wonder… If you knew the truth…"

The old man watched him silently, one hand tightening around the armrest of the chair, the other clutching a piece of parchment. On his lap lay an ornate box.

"Faolyn would never see harm by my hand, not by intent...You must believe that." Noah's voice lowered to an almost whisper. "But my life…" His words trailed off, and then his face set with resolve and his voice strengthened. "You are right to judge my presence a threat. I have made many enemies and very few friends. I do not seek to make an enemy of you-for Faolyn's sake. And yet you must know the truth."

Tarachande held up a hand.  
"Let us save this matter for another day."

Noah blinked in surprise. "My lord?"

Tarachande scowled and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"Sorry, _old man_." The dry wit was yet guarded.

Tarachande's laugh held an edge. "Not _altogether_ tamed, are you, _boy_?"  
Noah winced unwillingly, and the old man's face gentled slightly. "I'm glad to know it."

Noah's eyes were somber once more, and his lips moved in preparation to speak, but Tarachande stood, shaking his head.  
He sat the papers in the chair, with the box upon them as a weight and approached the tall man who had come to him as a supposed corpse to be buried, lived to become a patient, stayed on as the boy's defender, and returned guardian protector. "For the boy's sake, we will leave this for the time being."

"The truth may become necessity, for us both." Noah persisted quietly.

"Ah, yes. _Necessity_." The old man scoffed knowingly.

Again Noah flinched, and Tarachande unexpectedly broke his own law of silence, his aged voice suddenly frail and wistful. "Did you-did you know him well?"

Noah's eyes were downcast. His words were emotionless.  
"He possessed a brilliant mind. ...He was _dedicated_ to his cause."

The old man's shrewd mind deciphered the younger man's attempt to buffer the truth, and he nodded sadly. "I see."

Guilt shadowed Noah's face, but the old man unexpectedly reached a weathered hand to Noah's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Noah warned softly and pulled away from the touch.

The old man sighed. "Sufficient for the day, boy. Tomorrow we will introduce our young charge to a whole new world. We must be rested. He'll have more energy than the both of us, I would wager."

"Yes, of course." Noah turned to go.

"What happened here?" The alarm in the weathered voice turned Noah's head to see Tarachande gesturing toward his wounded back.

"Possibly I irritated the wound fighting a beast while you were entertaining young lovers." Noah gave a half-smile. "It's nothing."

"Hmm…" The old man frowned. "How have you been feeling?"

"Fine."

The old man frowned more deeply. "The truth!"

"...A little pain, now and again."

"And prior to this particular excursion? How have you been since your return here?"

Noah watched him closely. "The same."

"I wouldn't wonder." The old man remarked thoughtfully, and Noah's brow was raised in question.

"Oh, it's nothing, I'm sure. Your wounds, in fact, appear to be knitting rather well, though with your continued rashness I have a doubt you deserve such fortune. If ever you expect to fully heal you ought to leave off fighting for a time. Or is that too much to ask?"

"I think I could manage it, but you'll have to ask the beasts to leave off fighting me."  
Noah returned lightly, and the lines around the old man's eyes betrayed him as they crinkled in amusement.

"Well, go! Get some bit of rest, boy."

Noah understood well that the obstinate old man would not willingly speak more on this night, and morn was not far off.  
Faolyn needed him to be rested enough to keep watch. The boy had never been in such crowds and might be unsettled.  
It was to Noah to help him manage his fear. The old man would have to wait.

Reluctantly Noah exited the study to make his way back to the room that had first been, and now again was, his.

Tarachande watched the younger man until the corridors blocked his view from the bare, battle-scarred shoulders and the strong back upon which the wounds were now etched with lines of sparkling blue.

Faolyn eased himself away from the darkened stairwell and back into his room, carefully pulling the door closed behind him.

* * *

Noah prepared for sleep and extinguished the light in his room before walking to gaze out the window, all the while thinking on the fine writing paper that had scattered across the floor. Each sheet inscribed with the Imperial family seal…and the signature drawn out in a well-known script.

_Yours, as always, ~Vayne._

* * *

"Meret Denali has been released into the arms of his family, Your Honor." The report from Judge Zargabaath had come earlier by messenger to Gabranth.

Basch looked through the barred glass to the grounds below, and felt the shadow of caged walls closing in around him. He turned away.

Larsa lay on a chaise where he'd fallen asleep reading, and Basch took the book that lie open beside him and put it on the shelf.  
No fairytales were to be found in this book. The subject was diplomatic policies, successful and failed.

Basch prepared Larsa's blankets and then removed his shoes, finally lifting him gently and carrying him to the bed. Larsa groaned softly, stretched and yawned when he was placed upon the mattress, then turned over and curled into the extra pillows Basch had put beside him to take up the massive extra space. Basch covered him and smiled affectionately. And then sadness overwhelmed him for the trials Larsa faced every day.

If only he could simply be a child. But it was not so.  
Larsa Ferrinas Solidor could not play tag in the streets, gather with the neighborhood youth on the corner, or walk unmolested alone with his thoughts through the city.

Larsa had this morning startled him with the unprompted demand to be taken to tour Old Archades. Such was the way of Kings and Queens and Emperors…  
Basch had vigilantly sent a handpicked team of the Elite Guard to unobtrusively scope out the district, had secured a private, enclosed hovercar to take the two of them just outside the area, and then, with the Elite team stationed quietly at different vantage points, had taken to the streets.

How the people had stared. And not all with any sort of pleasure. Some expressed outright animosity.  
But Larsa had remained kind and patient.  
When at one point a disgruntled citizen had approached the young leader, Basch, face hidden behind the ominous helm, had stepped forward from Larsa's side, but the boy had discreetly lifted his hand for Basch to wait. Instead of arguing with the man or making false promises, Larsa had listened and offered this to the people, _"I would hear your complaints and know your hopes, so that we might begin, together, to make right these things, for we are brothers and sisters, citizens of Archadia, and we rise or we fall as one."_  
And they had heard many complaints. But the vehemence of hostility decreased with every encounter, until many looked to Larsa with curious and cautious but hesitantly expectant eyes.

And then, as they had made their way to leave, flanked and distantly followed by others of the emerging Elite, Basch had seen Larsa's eyes turn toward the sound of laughter.  
They were just children, playing in the dirty streets, laughing and chasing one another with abandon. Poor and dressed in rags, most of the young were barefoot, but how they enjoyed each other's company… They did not belong in those conditions, cast out and sleeping on the ground, but they did belong together…  
The children stopped abruptly as the young leader passed by, watching him with wary eyes and wondering faces, and then their exuberance and games began again.  
Basch had seen it, the loneliness and longing that had for a moment flooded Larsa's eyes, and then he saw as Larsa tucked the child away and walked on, Emperor.  
A boy and a man.

As in their game of strategic conquest later on in the evening…

The guardian had sat, pondering whether it was right to take the win or if he should allow Larsa the triumph until Larsa's voice had knowingly encouraged, _"Claim your victory, Basch. We will rematch tomorrow." _

Basch reached to extinguish the dimmed lights when Larsa's sleep-laden voice stopped his hand.  
"Judge Magister Gabranth? …Basch?"

"Yes, my lord?" Basch was at once across the room and at Larsa's side. Larsa sat up, hair mussed and tired eyes, but it was the distress in Larsa's tone that caught the Judge Magister's ear. "Larsa, are you well?"

Larsa looked ashamed. "I am sorry, Basch. I was dreaming…I fear I will not be able to return to sleep."

Dreaming. Of what Basch did not ask, but after their earlier conversation it might not be so hard a thing as to guess…  
"What do you need, my lord? Tell me." Basch's voice was intent and concerned.

Larsa looked to his guardian with shy, young eyes and asked, "Would it be possible…I know you also require rest, and you have many duties…But...would you mind reading to me for just awhile?"

"Of course, Larsa. I would be happy to." Basch smiled gently and went to the shelf.  
He left the books on affairs of state, diplomacy, battlefield strategies, and political solutions. Instead he picked up a rather worn volume he'd found at the Market.

Pulling a chair to Larsa's bedside, Basch opened the book. Larsa settled back on the pillows as Basch began, "Long, long ago, in a land far away…"

Before the tale had ended, Larsa's eyes had closed and his breathing settled.  
Basch skimmed the pages full of adventure and friendship, family and love, and sighed. He closed the book, resting it on the stand at Larsa's side where it might be found on the morrow.  
He watched carefully the young leaders face for any sign of grief but instead a slight smile played at Larsa's lips as he rested peacefully.  
Basch smiled, rearranged the coverings carefully, and gently touched Larsa's hand.  
"Dream well, Larsa."

* * *

Haleine sat alone in her large house, feeling the silence and the barrenness surrounding her in greater measure by the hour.

She'd not even bothered opening the shop today. Kasan wasn't the only one gone to the festival. So were many of their remaining customers. And if customers _had_ come there was little left to sell.  
Clearly Kasan had forsaken his home, taking with him their income.

Haleine shivered as she thought of Dwen's prophetic words. _I can tell you this, my lady, you are nothing_ _without Kasan._

She could not think on it… Tomorrow she would find a solution.  
For the moment there was no reason stand about an empty floor, dusting and counting cheap trinkets.

She pulled her long, velvety night robe around her body, and put her feet up on the tufted ottoman. Her trusty notepad was on the end table beside her chair, and a single lamp cast a strange prism glow across half the room through the stained glass shade.

She was halfway done adding up a list of expenses for the month to compare to the now certain to be disproportionately low sales numbers when the rain started falling outside her window.  
She got up to close the open pane and noticed the faint outline of a hoverbike as it turned to glide covertly down the alleyway beside her shop. The bike ran without illumination in the dark, rainy night, though the streetlamps cast a hazy glow and revealed the furtive machine.  
Haleine's heart began to race with trepidation.  
She kept herself hidden behind the tapestry curtains until the bike was out of sight and then rushed to turn off the lamp.

Years in this house had afforded her the comfort of finding her way in the dark, and she slipped silently into Kasan's room, taking from its place on his wall the sword he'd first made upon his return from war. This, thankfully, he had left untouched since its creation.  
It was beautiful, though dark and ominous in design, brooding even in the ornate monochromatic scrollwork on the guard and pommel. But there was an inscription written on the blade itself…  
_For the Sake of the Angels._ She suspected the artistry spoke of his experiences and his grief, though she'd never admit to have let the thought cross her mind.

She stole down the hallway and to the door that adjoined her home and business, taking care to turn the knob with slow and steady pressure.  
The gentlest of clicks told her the lock had released, and she positioned herself to have the sword ready when the door swung wide.

No ringing of the bell had sounded, no alarm-always carefully set-had activated, but she had to be prepared. Even here in the respectable part of Archadia crime might be attempted, and in these days of restructuring rule and alliances some might be emboldened to act when before fear had stayed the hand.

As she stepped through the door all seemed as it should be. She sighed, relieved, and let the heavy sword lower in her hand.

The touch of cold steel against the nape of her neck stopped her steps, but it was the words, and the voice of the one who spoke them, that might well have stopped her heart.

"Hello, Haleine. How kind that you should open your door to an old friend."


	12. Treachery and Treason

Never had he seen so many people in one place… Never had he seen so many people at all!  
The sounds were deafening. The colors were blinding. And what were these scents in the air?

Carefully Noah watched as Faolyn shied away from the cluster of bodies that approached, flinching like a frightened creature when contact became unavoidable.  
Faolyn's eyes were lighter today-brighter as well, and there was a subtle shift in the tint of his pale skin.  
Both would be unnoticeable to any not watching for a change, but Noah saw it clearly.

He followed closely behind, both to reassure and to keep watch over the boy in case he became overwhelmed by the newness.  
When Faolyn dropped back to disappear into his protector's tall shadow, Noah fell back beside him and draped his strong arm loosely around the boy's shoulder.  
"Tell me, Faolyn, what do you think?"

The soft-spoken voice that reached Faolyn's sensitive ears amid the racket was untroubled and pleasant.  
Faolyn looked up at the man beside him and was comforted by the relaxed posture and unhurried stride.  
"It's…loud." It was as much as he could manage. His mind was yet racing to knit together some understanding of this startling scene.

Noah chuckled. "Yes. Yes, it is. Have you seen anything interesting yet?"

Faolyn shrugged shyly, uncertain in this strange experience.  
His eyes moved across the landscape to view the flame-throwers, the dancers, and the minstrels entertaining the crowds with their prowess.

Noah watched the same scene, and how the people were enticed in their awe toward tents of wares, with the disenchanted eyes of one accustomed to deceit. But then his gaze slipped to the boy and beheld the wonder of newness in the young face.  
Noah's expression was softened when he turned to look upon the players again.

As the path opened up into the main, Noah held Faolyn back and drew him aside gently.  
"Here. I want you to have this." Noah took a small pouch of Gil from beneath his cloak and tucked it into Faolyn's hands.  
"Never let it out of your hands or your sight, and be certain you receive correct change from whomever you buy. You can never know who might prove to be a thief. Understand?"

Faolyn nodded soberly but then seemed to realize what was being given him. "I can't-"

Noah smiled easily. "It will please me to see you enjoy yourself. Find something by which to remember the day."

"Clothes?" Faolyn struggled with trusting the meaning of the gift.

Noah released an exasperated laugh. Faolyn frowned, embarrassed, and Noah at once mastered the ironic humor that had risen at the boy's response.  
"Father Tarachande will see to your attire; he has demanded the privilege, and who are we to deny him." Noah smiled lightly, and Faolyn took a deep breath.

"…I am to spend this on…anything?..." Faolyn was yet unwilling to simply take for granted this privilege.

"Anything you like." Noah reaffirmed patiently. "This Gil is only to be enjoyed."

Faolyn finally accepted his protector's intent, and the smile of gratitude was shared by his lips and soft blue eyes.

"Well, Faolyn, where will you start?" Noah gracefully swept an arm out before them, presenting the possibilities to this common child like a conquered land before a prince's feet...

The boy's eyes shot to Noah's face in alarm, but Noah again encouraged him, "Go ahead. I'm with you."

"Indulgent, aren't you?" Disapproval laced the acidic words as Tarachande appeared at Noah's shoulder, walking with him as they trailed one stall behind the lad.

"The boy works hard. There's no harm in bringing him a little pleasure."  
Though Noah's voice was even, the old man saw the tightening of Noah's jaw and lips and the hardening of his eyes.

Even if he'd not known the younger man was right, Tarachande would have conceded.  
He was no fool with a wish to dance on the edge of a sword just to see if he might bleed, and this was not, he sensed, a point on which Noah was willing to relent.

"No, of course not. Don't mind me." Tarachande waved his hand in the air. "I've bought enough garments to keep us clothed for some time, I believe."

"_Us_, my lor-" Noah coughed to cut off the formality that had tried to force itself from his lips, and Tarachande glared before shaking his head in frustration.

"Such a submissive rebel."

Noah's brow lowered and darkened his eyes. His frame stiffened.

The old man cursed himself inwardly. What a blasted unruly tongue he had lately acquired, or perhaps it had always been with him and only not for some time seen such good use.  
"Yes, _us_. My own wardrobe is sorely outdated and wearing thin, and I find the prospect of spiriting off to my homeland for a change of robe highly unlikely. And you cannot surely be content with a choice between rags and ill fitting leftovers from a past decade."

"I choose to believe it adds to my mystery." Noah's lips flexed as he suppressed a touch of amusement.

Tarachande looked the younger man over with a critical eye. The words were meant to be self-deprecating, and yet the old man wondered if the younger knew they were true.  
Over six feet, lean, and muscled, this man held a certain tension of awareness and instinct that brought an air of violence to him even as he stood passively watching a child entranced by performers and craftsmen. …This was a man who was alone even in this crowd of people-people who instinctively seemed to avoid the cloaked figure whose face lay obscured by shadows of the hood.  
It was as if they felt the danger that surrounded and flowed from him.

There were others here who solicited similar responses, also being avoided by the populace, but none whose civil manner offered such a vagueness of why.  
Indeed, the Dalmascan guard had removed a few unruly guests who were marked for aggression or dishonest intent.  
No such thing could be said of the courteous man who strode silently through the crowds as if unaware of any turbulence his presence brought to the atmosphere.  
Tarachande looked to the younger man, suddenly curious, and somehow knew that those eyes, the color of a brooding sky, the eyes that seemed never to leave Faolyn, were yet watchful of all other faces as well.

Noah turned his head and met the old man's gaze, and Tarachande felt the same disquiet that he had attributed to others.

The merchant from whom Tarachande had purchased the goods caught the elder's eye as the bundle was readied, and the old man hurried off.

Noah felt tightness in his stomach. Here he had seen a glimpse of a new life. He could not ask for himself, but for Faolyn…  
Here, he'd found another chance to do what so many times past he could not… He'd found a chance to not fail... He would not…_could not_…fail.  
And yet in the eyes of the old man already the ghosts of the past had reared their heads to mock him.

…Noah had not had the privilege afforded to sons, and-more rarely-daughters, of Archadian officers who might prefer their own children into leadership roles and see them bypass the struggle and danger of life as a low level soldier. The role of Judge Magister oft had seemed to teeter on the cusp of becoming an inherited honor.  
Drace herself had been the daughter of a Judge Magister whose father had passed his Judicer's Plate, with blessing from the Emperor, to his only child.  
But Noah, of dubious tie to Imperial Archadia, had no such advantage to draw from.  
He had risen through the ranks on merit alone before being noted for service and selected, by the Emperor himself, for promotion to the all but unattainable Elite Guard position.

It was an honor and title he had never aspired to, and yet the role had come to him and he had found a reason-as he had found reason all the years before.

It was not long before this appointment to the Ministry of Law that the deaths of the eldest sons of Lord Emperor Gramis had occurred.  
...By the hand of Vayne.  
...On charge of treason.  
Drace had privately said it…  
The public notation in the Imperial record named the two as heroes lost in the war.  
…A convenient lie, and not an unfamiliar scheme.

That Drace was correct Noah did not doubt, nor Gramis's hand in it…  
Perhaps that was why he had been selected at that particular time and why he was set to guard the young child Larsa.

Always there was a shadow between Gramis and Vayne and a strange struggle for the possession of Larsa.  
It had been impossible, in the early days, to see with whom the young one would be more secure.

Not always had he agreed with Drace, who had been given the role of nurturer and teacher from the early days of Larsa's life.  
Privately she had vehemently opposed Vayne, though to others she had then kept silent, saying the charges against the eldest sons were false and Vayne's hand too eager for blood and power.  
But to Gabranth's eyes it had not seemed so clear, for Vayne had truly shown affection and devotion to his young sibling, attentive to his every care and whim with a patient smile.  
It was difficult to perceive any threat.

And what of a father who would condemn his own children to death to preserve his reign? What of that?

It had not seemed such an easy thing to condemn Vayne and pardon Gramis.  
And Gabranth had kept his judgment through those early days, until Gramis began to reveal in confidence whispers of his declining health and increasing concern over the fate of his surviving sons.  
How strange it had been when the Emperor, who never allowed in himself a sign of weakness, had begun to betray his regret with slight references and vague shadows.  
He would never have confided the plain truth of the matter, but Gabranth was keen enough to understand…as the Emperor had surely known.

And day by day, as the sickness aged him before his time and Gramis had failed in strength, Vayne had grown mighty.  
It was as if his father's vitality had been siphoned and transferred into his veins.

Something else had changed. It became throughout ever more apparent to Gabranth that Vayne's love for Larsa was supremely contingent upon the young one remaining innocent and naïve.  
Gabranth had felt certain that as long as Larsa looked to his older brother with worshipful eyes of faith and adoration, Vayne's generosity and tolerance would carry on.  
But there was something in the way that Vayne's eyes settled on the boy that told the Judge Magister just as clearly that Vayne Carudas Solidor would not tolerate any deviance from this course.  
Larsa was not to have a choice or say.

Though he had at times almost desperately longed for Larsa's ascension to power, Gabranth had also hoped Larsa would need never come to realize the truth of it.  
In the end, the truth would not be denied.

Tarachande…Noah could remember no such name being made mention of…could remember no such name in the archives…  
The letter had called him "Uncle"…was it truly a family title or a term of endearment?  
In either case, he was well known to Vayne. At what point in Vayne's life had the connection been made, and was it kept to his death?  
…What would the old man say if it was known that Noah had been an instrument in the death of Vayne?  
What would he say if he knew it to be the hand of Vayne that had sent Noah to him as dead?  
For it was true that the difficult succession of conflicts he had faced, both contesting with Basch and his companions and the wounding clash with Dr. Cid, had left him battered and splintered.  
Yet it was truly Vayne Solidor who had dealt the evil blow responsible for leaving him broken and bloodied, helpless against his fate.  
…If the old man had known these dread things, would Tarachande have worked to restore his life? Could Noah have asked him to?

"Either note the truth of the matter or remove the item! I'll not have the Dalmascan Order of Knights dishonored!"

Noah's eyes turned from viewing Faolyn's enjoyment of the Chocobo races to a nearby booth.  
A tall, sun-bronzed Dalmascan Knight stood in front of the table of wares-from here they looked to be carved figures of some sort. He was arguing heatedly with the vender, who in turn was raising his hands in annoyance.

"It's just an old wood carving, okay! I did it years ago!"

"It matters not! You are selling the piece today, yes?"

"It is part of history, buddy."

"Then write the _true_ history upon it! I will not have my men so misrepresented! To claim this one as an honored-"

"Fine, fine!" The vendor groaned in frustration. "It's not like anyone's gonna buy it anyway, but if you want it, you got it." The plump Hume picked up pen and paper, scrawled a quick line, and impaled the paper on the figures outstretched sword-arm. "There. Nobody's gonna miss it. _Traitor _Captain Basch fon Ronsenberg! Happy now?"

The world stopped spinning for a moment, or maybe Noah's vision only sped up. It felt as if everything around him had suddenly slowed, voices blurred, other sounds faded, and only one word remained, beating with the pulsing of his rebelliously loud heart… _"Traitor…traitor…traitor…"_

* * *

Basch rubbed his eyes. He'd passed a restless night, waking from violent but senseless dreams with a racing heart and anxious mind. What were these shadows that chased him, calling him by name? _"Basch! Basch! …Gabranth!"_  
He shuddered with sudden cold, and rubbed his arms briskly to remove the chill.

It was only afternoon, and already he had seen a full day. He had dealt with further prisoner reviews, spoke with the lesser Judges on matters of protocol in processing suspects, met with two of his agents regarding unrest within Rozarria, and conducted an inspection of the Guard.  
Zargabaath was meeting with Larsa for the hour and Basch had intended to screen some of the letters sent to Larsa from the citizens. He knew that Larsa would want to read them for himself, no matter what he might find in the words, and yet Basch scanned each letter to know that there were no personal threats to Larsa's safety to be discovered. There were a few _good citizens_ being watched around the clock after Basch had read the ominous messages enclosed, and one unstable man had been placed in guarded care after a gift of a vial of venom had been received.

Basch yawned, and sat the letters down on the end table beside the chair. His hand touched the book that had remained unmoved since his brother had last laid it there. It had seemed wrong to disturb it, as if he would be removing the last traces of Noah if he did so. And yet…

Basch took the book carefully in his hand, revealing a thin outline of dust framing the shape on the tabletop. His rough fingers caressed the worn cover and opened the book.  
At once he recognized the novel. A mythological tale full of iconic creatures in a mysterious land set in a time outside this, it was fraught with visions of unrequited love and misfortune. Their mother had owned a copy when they were children. It was a beautifully written tragedy.

Basch carefully turned the pages, and sat the book down on the table to reach for a paper to use as a marker, when the pages fell in a natural part, revealing a thin folded sheet held between the pages.  
Carefully Basch took the paper, unfolded it gently, and drew a pained breath.

Simple words graced the page, recorded in a careful hand.  
But what was said was all that was required to report the death of a mother taken before her time…  
And pressed between the folds of the paper was a dried flower…

"_I'm sorry, Basch. She's gone." It had been Vossler who'd brought the words.  
…And now he was gone with her. _

_The fields had been golden then, as golden as the desert sand, waving gently in the breeze, and the sky that had began the day as the clearest blue had turned to a smoldering hue, creating a sharp contrast with the earth below. _

_In the distance he could see the birds scattering in disjointed flight as if their rhythm was disrupted by the heaviness of the air. And yet as he stood watch-he had volunteered with a wish to be alone with his pain, the clouds that had gathered had begun to slip away. There remained a mellow evening horizon. The air seemed unnaturally cool in this normally sultry land. He pulled his arms tight around his chest against the chill in his heart. _

"_It's my turn." Vossler appeared, helm in hand, curls dampened with sweat._

"_Find some rest, and leave this watch to me as well." Basch insisted quietly. _

_Vossler frowned and kicked at the dirt awkwardly with his booted foot. "You know, you could get leave, if you asked." He alone had been present to see the devastation in Basch's blue eyes at the fell news. _

"_And what help could I give to her now?" The words were serious and matched the tone._

_The gangly youth, who had become both a rival and a friend to Basch, screwed his face up, uncomfortable with this grievous situation. "I-I don't know. I just thought…"_

"_She is gone." Basch spoke solemnly, his voice low and thick with sorrow. "And though I would wish for it, can I bring her back? I must go on. She would want it no other way." Basch looked to the horizon, his emotions unreadable._

_Vossler scratched his head, gathering thick curls between his fingers. "Okay." He said it uncertainly.  
And then he took a deep breath, determining to accept Basch's statement and be done with it.  
"Yes, of course. Well-I'll be back in two hours to relieve you. No argument! You'll need some strength for the morrow." _

_Basch gave no reply, and was glad when his friend left his side, slipping back through the brush to their camp. Vossler, eager to prove his own courage and skill to be greater, was an officer already, following in the steps of his ancestors: a proud Son of Dalmasca. But though he was not wishful of being embarrassed by an outsider, he had also become a good friend. His laughter and spirited manner were oft a cure for Basch's quiet seriousness. And they shared many things in common-loyalty and devotion to the cause foremost. Basch had come to trust Vossler with the information of his mother's homeland-something he'd otherwise disclosed only to his superiors. But this was a different matter. In this grief he could only be alone._

_Leaving now was out of the question. The Kingdom needed him.  
Their numbers were far fewer than the Empire and spread thin defending their borders.  
Every day the threat increased.  
And even if he had dared leave…how could he set foot on the streets of Archadia?  
Already he would be known as an enemy.  
His involvement in the recent move to drive the aggressors further from Dalmascan territory had not remained secret. He had received decoration after the recent mission, and he had heard whispers, though he tried to ignore, of imminent promotion. _

_The recognition was both humbling and warming, but though his actions might bring him closer to the heart of Dalmasca, they would not endear him to Archadia.  
What assurance had he that if he stepped foot there he would ever return? _

_He could not leave this task undone. He would defend this Kingdom against threat, as he had been unable to do for Landis. And that meant not taking unnecessary risks to indulge even his dearest desires._

_The wind shifted once more, and he shivered violently. _

_He closed his eyes, and tried to imagine her in eternal repose at her memorial. He could not.  
But Noah would have seen to her…_

_Noah…_

_The last time he had seen his brother, lying sleeping in the room they shared, he had stood in the doorway, memorizing with care every line of the face that to others seemed identical to his own but to the eyes of Basch was so uniquely its own. _

_His heart had wished to say goodbye to Noah, to explain the reasons for his flight. But instead he had waited for his brother's eyes to close and breathing to change before he took the satchel of supplies for his journey and left their home. Something inside whispered it was fear that kept him silent. Fear that saying goodbye would make him stay._

_He had kissed his mother's cheek, shared a warm embrace, the memory of which had until this night warmed him. Somehow he had then released her loving hands from his to walk out into the night and away from home forever with the echo of her words in his heart. _

_He looked at the sky, into the shadow of the moon that was beginning to show itself in the falling shade of eventide._

_What would his brother do now? Where would he go?  
He pressed his hand to his chest suddenly, the dreadful intensity of pain like the rending of his heart._

_With a terrible ache Basch longed to be with his brother, to grieve at his side. To comfort and be comforted…_

_How he now wished to look into his brother's face, to know if it had changed-to see indeed if Noah found him altered by these late experiences… _

_But he could not return. He had no right. _

_The choice had been made as to the path he would walk, and, like this grief, the way could not be undone. _

_The honor of standing at her side went to Noah. He had given his own right away when he had so chosen. _

_The choice of what path to take belonged to Noah alone, and he would make it-as Basch had made his.  
Basch would not interfere. _

_All that he could now do was to pursue his own choice with even more passion and resolve, and to succeed in this life he had made-for her sake. _

_But...why had he always thought he would see her again?  
Always her face had appeared to him, bidding him continue…  
Even when she had returned to her homeland, the dreams had remained.  
Hope had not abandoned him. And always Basch had held hope for her as well. _

_He understood why she could not have followed him here, where they had no ties of friendship or kin to aid them in their need. And he would not have asked it of her. It was not the people of the Empire themselves that he fought against, and he did not begrudge his mother her home.  
Yet truly he had been wishful that one day she might come to see this place and know and love it as he now did. _

_These were a spirited people and not easily swayed. Loyal they were, and determined in their course to remain free and whole. They were not unlike his beautiful, spirited mother who had told them the account of how she'd recklessly left her own homeland and comfort for love of a struggling merchant from a small land. _

_The ache in his heart numbed, and the the tears that he should rightly shed would yet not come.  
He felt somehow hollow. _

_His mother's face was before his eyes, frozen in time. It came as he had known her, ever full of life, laughing eyes and smile bright. But somehow she was now removed from him-an image of hope and love guiding him on but no longer flesh and blood to hold. _

_His brother's face was only a distant shadow moving over his heart-like a wisp that he could not grasp._

_He was alone. _

_Basch watched the horizon carefully, and made out the first stars of night. _

"_Goodbye, mother." His voice was low and grim. "I will fight for all you have helped me to believe. In this you will always be with me." _

And now Noah too was now gone…not all tales have happy endings.

Was his brother reunited with their parents? Basch hoped so, for all their sakes.

Was the right his to hope that he and Noah too would be together, forgiven and mended, one day?

Basch returned the folded leaf with its bloom of remembrance and shut the book, tenderly pressing the cover as he restored the volume within the faint border on the table.

There it would remain, for in this memory he had no place.

* * *

Faolyn's sensitive ears caught the name. He turned to seek his guardian's face within the hood and found it frozen in pain.

The man behind the wooden table full of wood carvings threw up his hands and roared a string of curses when the pale boy with long, white-blonde hair stepped up and asked for the notorious figure.  
The Dalmascan guard scowled darkly as well. "What business do _you_ have with Basch fon Ronsenberg?"

"Mind your tongue." Noah was instantly at Faolyn's side, his voice rough with emotion.

The Dalmascan guard put an insistent hand on Noah's arm, and Noah shook him off in a simple, violent motion. "The item is for purchase, and the boy's currency pays as well as any. Finalize the sale. Now."

The outspoken artist who had dared argue against the guard now had no words, and his hands could not work fast enough to complete the purchase. "H-Here. I'll throw in a second item. No charge. Take your pick." He stuttered as he addressed the boy, and Faolyn shot a look up to Noah, who only continued to stare down the man behind the booth, shoulders rising and falling with the barely controlled motion of angry breathing, ignoring the affronted guard at his side.

Faolyn accepted the packages and stepped away from the stall. The wood-carver quickly swept his wares into a chest and put up a sign "closed" on his booth, tripping over his feet in the rush to escape this unlucky change of fate.

Noah moved to escort Faolyn away, but the Dalmascan guard stood in their way. Noah merely continued, knocking the guard's shoulder aside, but the guard angrily put a hindering stiff arm across Noah's chest.

"_What_ have _you_ to do with _Basch fon Ronsenberg_?" Again an answer was demanded, and the words were spit out in scorn.

Noah's eyes became hard and cold, lids narrowed like a deadly guillotine poised to fall, and the young guard's brow twinged just slightly as he steeled himself against the seething rage that emanated from this cloaked stranger.

"What matters it to _you_-_Captain?_" Noah's tone was brusque, and then slightly mocking, as he acknowledged the soldier's rank.

The young man bristled. "There you have your answer. I hold my title proudly and would not have it disparaged."

"You are young. There is much you do not know and even more you do not understand."  
Noah's voice took on a softer but still threatening tone. He struggled internally to remember that Faolyn was at his side and to be mindful of all that hinged on his discretion.

The young Captain's hand moved to the sword at his side, and he stepped forward.  
"You threaten a Captain of the Kingdom?"

"You threaten a citizen of Ivalice for the crime of contributing to the commerce of this gathering?"  
Noah returned as sharply, but this time his voice held no threat-only reprove.

The young guard was suddenly unsure. Noah continued softly, "Are the honored Dalmascan Order of Knights under orders from their Queen to harass the people? A pleasant way to mind the peace."  
As he prompted himself to mind the moment, he also reminded the young Captain of just what was at stake.

The guard's eyes betrayed the conflict he now felt. He looked hesitantly toward Faolyn.  
"Is the boy Dalmascan?" His voice held much more hesitance than anger.

"Does Dalmasca seek peace only for itself?" The offer brought the guard's eyes, unsettled and grieved, quickly to the shadowed face.

"Do you mock us?" The young man's concern was evident in both his voice and face.

Noah's frame relaxed just slightly at the honest question that came to him.  
"No, Captain." His voice was neutral, and the resentment in the young Captain's eyes faded somewhat.

There was silence between them for a moment as the young man looked for a solution that would not sacrifice his pride. It was Noah who broke the stillness, his voice roughened with grief once more. "The man you hate gave much for your people before that fell day. Tell me, Captain, does one moment in time erase all else?"

"Yes." The word was almost whispered, and the voice sounded younger than before. "When that moment makes one Kingslayer." And then resolve set in, and the young man's eyes were bright with emotion. "I will _never_ betray my Queen or my people."

Noah's eyes turned aside, and he spoke quietly. "Take care, Captain, that _they_ do not betray _you_."

The young officer let them pass unhindered, torment in his boyish eyes, and Noah walked away slowly with Faolyn silent at his side.


	13. Blind

"It was good of you to bid me stay, my lady." The genteel voice properly addressed Haleine Ranel from across the formal table where they took tea.

"Must you soon be leaving?" Haleine questioned hesitantly.

"I am disappointed in you, my dear." The silky voice held a note of rebuke, and Haleine flushed, though pride kept her head high. "After all we have been through I had thought I could more rely on your devotion."

"I have done all that I knew possible. What more could I do?"  
Though she kept her voice steady somehow, her heart beat wildly.

"How is your son?" The well-dressed gentleman that sat across the table from her smiled amiably, but Haleine stiffened in her chair.

"He is well enough." Her voice was cold.

"Hm. And does he yet have friends?" There was a sharpness to the eyes that pierced her own and belied the friendly concern in the voice.

"I do not know. He is most often alone, save his loyal assistant-a girl, Dwen." Haleine's gaze was direct and unwavering, and her guest returned the stare; the meal was forgotten.

"Really?" The voice seemed only mildly interested, but the remark sent a convulsion through Haleine, and she visibly trembled.  
Her guest smiled gently and lifted a spoon. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a fine napkin, eyelids lazily blinking as they continued to look into her face.

"They are not here." A refined sweep of the hand accompanied the words.

"No." Haleine's lips pressed into a thin line.

"I see. …And how goes your business these days, Madame Ranel?" The courtesy in his tone seemed genuine enough, but Haleine's well-manicured fingers dug into the table cloth.

"Not well, I'm afraid. Steadily our profits decline." Haleine answered truthfully.

"Perhaps your son needs encouragement to fulfill his duty," the gentleman suggested with concern.  
"A mother's love can be most persuasive and greatly to be desired over other _less gentle_ methods of discipline. But-if the mother fails to teach...life has its ways."

Haleine's face tightened, and her fingernails mangled the cloth. "He is a grown man."

"He is out of your control then, my dear?"

Unwillingly Haleine flinched. "He is yet…_recovering_…from the war."

The gentleman's eyes widened just slightly with worry. "Oh? He was marred by the experience? Do you find him greatly changed?"

"I find him aged and wearied." Her voice was flat, and her eyes held no emotion.

"Ah, yes. Such is the way. …But is he wiser, I wonder, my lady?"

"I cannot say."

"You _cannot_?" The brow lifted, and the smile slightly hardened.

Haleine was silent, and the finely mannered man pushed back his chair and rose, offering his hand in a sweeping gesture toward the motionless woman across the table.  
"Come, my dear, it has been such a long time. And though there is much yet to say, let it wait. Dance with me, my lady."

Haleine stared across the table, through candle flame, into the mild, handsome face of her uninvited guest but did not rise.

"Madame." The insistence was clear, and though he smiled it was an expression laced with displeasure. "Have I not waited long enough? Come."

"Of course." She cleared her throat and rose on suddenly unsteady feet, but he took her hand and led her gracefully into the music room.

A press of a button and soft music filled the air. He swept her into a firm embrace and across the floor in an elegant waltz.

"Ah, Haleine… Do you recall what last I said to you before that fateful hour?"

His breath was warm on her ear.

"I made you a promise, if you recall, and I hold my vows sacred. My word to you, my dear, is still true and just this: as loyal as you are to me, I will be to you."

His lips tenderly caressed her hair as they swept lightly across the floor.

* * *

"They're Rozarrian, aren't they?" Kasan groaned and tilted his head to the sky, his hands to his brow in frustration.

"Hm?" Dwen shot a look over the crowd toward the men who had just left the booth, each with a Kasan Ranel sword in hand. Their dress more than their appearance told the tale.  
"Oh. Yes. …I guess so. Why?"

Kasan heard the reserve in her short reply and felt a wave of shame. "I don't mean it like that. I'd not think less of any for the sake of nationality. Only…"

Dwen finished tallying up the recent sales and turned her violet eyes to his.  
Kasan read the question there and looked to his fingers before turning back to meet her gaze.  
"…Must I arm my enemies? Indeed _should_ I?" He lifted his hands and dropped them. "Does it make me a traitor to sell weapons to the enemies of my homeland?"

Dwen cocked her head and scowled. "Are the Empires now at war?"

The look Kasan returned was a dubious one.  
"I'm not certain it's that simple. War might not be declared, but the threat is always upon us. Even in this day of fresh peace, all it would take is a spark in a shifting wind and Ivalice is inflamed. And those two have the look of warriors. I know." He shook his head, irritated with himself. "I probably shouldn't say… Perhaps it's unfair. I cannot trust them."

"Kasan-" Dwen's voice was flat and somewhat impatient. "Are you so naïve as to think none of your weapons or armor went to rebels from Dalmasca and Bhujerba in the war just ceased? Truly?"

Kasan's eyes turned away, and his face sobered. "No. I am not." He spoke softly. "What I _am_ is fortunate not to have found death in the Dungeon this account."

Dwen winced, and turned from him. "I know." Her voice held the emotion her words lacked.  
He was silent.  
"But you had friends that protected you." She made her statement as fact, and then turned her face only slightly toward him to add, "Is this not so?"

He stared toward her, chewing his lip, lost in remembering, and then his eyes blinked slowly and he exhaled. "If I was protected it was by the truth…the same that condemned me."

"And what truth was that?" Her voice was slightly edged with unease.

Kasan laughed with self-mocking. "Ignorance." He held out his empty hands to the air. "I just didn't see what was right in front of me."

Dwen looked away and busied her hands pricing a finished piece. "It is only love that blinds you if you trust too freely." There was sadness in her voice.

She seemed not to see when Kasan came silently to her side, but his fingers absentmindedly traced a band of silver around her thumb and followed its pattern along the lines to her hand.  
Her fingers stopped working and she was motionless.

"Dwen-" His voice was husky, and she shivered with sudden emotion. "I-"

She turned to face him, her shimmering violet eyes on his.  
Tears came to her eyes as his work roughened fingers found her cheek and gently brushed along the contours of her face.

"Kasan-" She began to speak, and he silenced her with his lips.

* * *

"So, which path would you now like to take, boy?" The old man's voice turned Faolyn's head from searching the crowd for his protector.

"I don't care." Faolyn shrugged, and his eyes went back to their task.

Tarachande sighed. "Cease this worrying. Our friend is fine and is likely even now yet within sight of you. Pray, let him have a moment's peace, child."

Faolyn flushed with shame at the mild rebuke and walked silently beside Tarachande.  
The old man sighed again, sensing the boy's worry.

When the two had come upon him it had immediately been clear that something was amiss.  
Even more so when Tarachande had suggested the trio take a rest beneath the trees to catch their breath and enjoy a refreshing drink from the canteen.  
Noah had bid the boy stay, saying he had _something to see to._  
Faolyn had wished to resist, but the man had not been swayed, gently but firmly telling Faolyn to stay and he would return.  
…_Soon_, the old man found himself hoping.  
This current situation was not pleasant for either the boy, who was held back by the old man's slower pace, or for the elder, who found no interest in wandering aimlessly about the hillside and village looking to spend coins on some trinket.

"Can we go there?" Faolyn stopped so suddenly that the old man quite nearly fell and had to grasp the boy's lean shoulder for support.

"Where?" Tarachande followed Faolyn's eyes to the bright tent in the shadow and shelter of a hillside.  
The display out front showed a series of weapons, and the table held a light selection of armor.  
There was smoke rising from a makeshift forge, and a tall young man with dark hair pulled back from his face was pounding out a rhythm with a heavy hammer upon heated metal.  
Faolyn was entranced. Tarachande shook his head in exasperation. "Surely there is something else more-"

"Come on!" The boy's voice held great intensity, and the old man knew he was defeated before the boy's eager feet deserted him on the path amid mingling strangers.

Faolyn had been standing in silent watch beside the stall for quite some time before Tarachande made his way to the boy's side, breathing heavily. "In the name of all that's good, child-"

"For swords I prefer to work with a wet forge- "The artist was talking to an observer as the old man approached.

"Look!" The boy took no note of the old man's tardiness as he excitedly pointed out the artist's labors, and the dark haired man turned his head toward the onlookers with a friendly smile.

"Can I help you?" The young woman was slender and leanly muscled. There was a touch of an ethereal aura about her white curls and shining eyes and something of the wild in her lithe movements.

Faolyn met her eyes and looked quickly away, uncomfortable. "I-I-"

"Yes?" There was a bit of laughter in the young woman's tone, and her lips twisted into a grin even as her eyes considered the boy's face.

"Dwen." As the spectator wandered away, the craftsman turned his attention to the boy and saw the unsettled expression.  
His voice was mildly reproving but yet amused, and he tilted his head momentarily in a matching look toward the young woman.

Setting the piece to anneal beneath ash, he approached the bench. "Do you like swords then?" He smiled pleasantly.

"No!" Tarachande's voice was stronger than his legs, and the fierceness took everyone back, including the boy at his side. "He does not!"

The artist raised his hand calmingly, while his assistant glared, but Faolyn shot the old man a confused look and stuttered, "I don't know. I've never used a sword."

"And never will!"

"Oh." The artist quickly gauged the old man's threatening stance and the boy's fervent eyes and remained neutral.

"How much does a sword cost?" Faolyn questioned intently.

"Um. It depends, I suppose." The swordsmiths's eyes went to the old man's face and back to the boy's.

Faolyn scowled, turning his eyes angrily toward the old man and then back to the artist.  
"It's not for me!"

Tarachande scoffed loudly and threw up his hands.  
"Ah! I should have known! You think to buy _that man_ a more superior weapon!"

"He needs it!" Faolyn asserted adamantly.

"And what do you think _h_e would say if you were to spend all the Gil he has gifted _you_ to buy for _him_?" Tarachande argued, annoyed.

Faolyn was suddenly less sure. The point was good.  
The one purchase in his satchel was not truly his own, and Noah had at once replaced the spent coin, though the item remained with Faolyn.  
"But-"Faolyn stuttered and looked down at the battered wooden table in discouragement.

The artist was watching the boy kindly. "What kind of man is your friend?"

Faolyn looked up in question.

"Is he a farmer?"

Faolyn shook his head rapidly with a frown.

"A merchant perhaps?"

"No." Faolyn sighed and looked downhearted.

"A warrior?" The artist asked gently.

Faolyn looked up with bright eyes. "Protector. Guardian."

"Such a one requires a special blade, indeed." The craftsman spoke with sincerity, and Faolyn's frustration eased.  
"Many people, even most, are content with an average sword, for their identity is marked elsewhere. And the warrior often finds pride in his weapon for its sharpness and strength. But a guardian-protector, these should carry a weapon that tells a story, a blade that sings the song of the trust they keep."

Tarachande rolled his eyes in irritation, muttering beneath his breath, "Here we find a poet as well. Wonderful. Better we had stayed home."

Dwen moved to the end of the counter where she placed her fists on her hips and glared at the old man until he turned away, made ill at ease by her gaze.

"Tell the boy how much it would cost!" Tarachande demanded of the artist.  
"I know well the boy does not have enough. And I will not pay! Let that troublesome man buy his _own_ blade if he so desires something more!"

Faolyn breathed unevenly, emotion beginning to build, and his hands shook slightly. Tarachande was suddenly quiet.  
"Faolyn, it's okay." He spoke low and gently. "Don't let an irritable old man distress you, child."

Dwen's eyes turned with the old man's to the boy's face, and she was visibly disturbed by what she saw.

The artist addressed the young one as if there was no change.  
"He speaks true. Such a weapon would be quiet expensive. Also the preparations and effort take more time and equipment than for what I am here equipped."  
He swept his hand toward the makeshift setup.  
"What you saw me working on was a only a blacksmith's knife made from scrap. Such projects are more for enticing sales from these good people by offering something decorative and inexpensive than anything else." He gave Faolyn a crooked smile, and Tarachande watched their exchanged carefully.  
"Many times," the artist continued, "in creating such one-of-a-kind pieces as we are discussing, special ingredients are used, special defensive properties added. Sometimes even unique spoils from beasts such as Steeling wings-"

"Do you use Dragon scales?" Faolyn was again eager, and the strange blue cast that had come to his lips had faded.

The craftsman's brow rose in surprise.  
"Hm. Well, I've not made a sword from dragon scale. I'm not certain the properties or how malleable it would be…"  
He was silent for a moment, brow furrowed.  
"That's an interesting idea… I have heard of such used for shields… I'd think at the least it would make a strong chest plate…"  
The artist's eyes were no longer on Faolyn's, and his voice was thoughtful and drifting.

Dwen and Tarachande sighed in unison, equally frustrated, but Faolyn leaned forward with shining eyes.

"I _have_ a dragon scale! More than one even! And I have treasure from other beasts as well!"

"Are you _trying_ to get us robbed?" Tarachande scolded the lad and turned to the artist.  
"He does _not _have any _treasure _on his person- or in this place! When I make known this exchange, I am certain our able friend will keep an even closer eye upon our situation- and upon _you_, my clever friend, so do not think-"

"He's no thief, old man!" Dwen's voice was cutting, and she whirled around the table with fists clenched.

"Dwen!" The artist grabbed at her, catching only the end of her tunic's flowing sash.

A slight ripping sound caused her to stop and turn to him with accusing eyes as he grimaced at the torn seam.

"Kasan!" She shook her fist at him, forgetting her intent to defend.

He shrugged his apology, and she growled loudly.

"If we are done here." Tarachande took hold of Faolyn's elbow, thinking to guide him away, but the boy held back. "What now?"

"What if I _traded_ materials in exchange for a sword?"

"Well, aren't you suddenly talkative and ambitious? Do these materials even belong to you?" Tarachande interrupted the lad with annoyance. "I believe your guardian is responsible for these reckless kills."

"I helped gather the spoils! He said I'd have a share!"

"Did he now? Kind of him." Tarachande cut his eyes away, and his jaw tightened. He would speak to Noah on this later, rest assured.

Kasan looked down at the boys pale, eager eyes and over to the old man's angry, lined face.  
"Listen. I'll be here for awhile. For the moment I'll gift you this token as a reminder. And, if you wish," (He gestured toward the old man, making certain it was clear he was also being included in the address.) "you may contact me either here or later on at my shop in Archadia. I'm sure we could reach a suitable arrangement if you so decide."  
The combative assistant shook her head in frustration as the artist picked up a small, sheathed knife. All that could be seen was an ornate handle and the signature stamp engraved.

Faolyn understood the conversation had reached its end, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

Kasan reached over and patted the boy's thin shoulder. "Your guardian is very fortunate to have you."

Faolyn was silent. This man didn't understand.  
Noah wasn't just his protector. He wasn't just his friend.

…Through shadowlike dreams that woke him in the night, the face of his father often came to him.  
With eyes fearful and resigned he gave his surviving son one last look and stepped out the door into the night, leaving Faolyn alone to face the one who brought his nightmares to life.

Tarachande had briefly stated Faolyn's father as having given Faolyn into his care.  
Whether it was truly his father who had brought him or another who had found and taken him to the old man, of only one thing Faolyn was certain, his father had never cared enough to stay or to try to shield him, or his brother, from any ill fate.

His father had been afraid of him. Faolyn knew this with a certainty that reached beyond dreams.  
When his father had looked into his eyes that night Faolyn had known it was _She_ he saw.

Shame flooded him, and his heart beat…_Naren…I'm sorry…_

Yes, father Tarachande had taken him in and attempted to teach Faolyn a trade, but even he looked with eyes of doubt and concern that made the boy tremble inside with fear of his own self.

How long after that night had Faolyn wished he had been consumed by the flame…  
How many times when the old man had looked at him strangely and spoken to him in that peculiar way-as if he were a wild beast in need of taming-did he wish to hide away forever so that never again would he have to fear what he might become…  
Never again would he have to fear destroying someone he loved…

Only one had ever seen what he was and not answered with that certain dread and severance of affection that left him caged and alone.  
Only one had ever given him reason to hope that he might not become the _monster_ that haunted his sleepless nights.  
Only one had ever taken the weight of this burden as if it was not too much to ask. As if there was no reason to doubt and no reason to fear.

No...Noah was not a friend or protector alone.

* * *

Noah watched the old man and boy walk away and followed their path toward a series of tents.  
Faolyn was looking for him, Noah could see it in the way the boy craned his neck and watched the crowd.  
But Noah needed a moment alone to gather his rebellious emotions. He needed time to chase away the onslaught of memories.

Visions of Basch's pained eyes and bruised body, dried lips and raw shoulders beneath the cruel collar, pounded against his heart.

This was a familiar wound, and how often had he bid the memories come so that he might tear open the wound and let sorrow flood him again.  
How often had he nearly stumbled from the scene of his brother's captivity, feeling the weight of the chains as if they bound his own hands and feet?  
How much greater had been the weight of the chains that bound his heart and soul.

Though it was an added benefit that a slow death would torture Dalmasca's once proud Captain, Vayne had humored Basch's lingering existence in greater part to torture Gabranth.  
Of this Noah was now and had always been certain.

How often had he awakened to the mad and panicked racing of his heart after dreaming his brother's death in the bowels of the dread Dungeon confines?

…How easy it would have been…and how much pleasure might to Vayne it have brought…to demand Gabranth execute Basch to prove his loyalty, in the same manner he had later demanded with Drace.

Did Basch know how many times Noah had come just to prove to himself that his brother lived?  
Noah…Gabranth… had barely been able to endure the visits, and he had seen in his brother's eyes that Basch too suffered greatly by them.  
Yet he had come as often as he could justify, careful not to arouse the interest of Vayne, who so often enjoyed putting Noah's loyalty to the test.

When in those days he had felt he could no longer go on…  
When his heart sought reasons he could not find, he had gone to his brother's cage and mocked the shame he shared.  
He had gone to see the pain in his brother's eyes…to feel it again in his own heart…  
To know by that hurt that he still loved…and by that love remember why he must hate…  
And so go on.

It was much the same as at the death of their mother…  
How many times since that day, when he had fought to remember the reasons for the life he lived, had he torn apart the wound so that he could recall again…

"_Mother?...Mother, please… Can you hear me? It's Noah. Mother? Hold on. Have hope… For me? I-I love you. I love you…"  
The boy kneeling at the bedside was blinded by tears and could not see the exchanged glances of the nurses who attended the scene.  
They knew in fact what the boy's own heart was telling him…his mother had very little time. In blunt fact, they had small hope she would live to find this same morn turn to evening. _

_For long months the proud lady had fought to survive on as little charity as possible. Her son had seen to her care and did what jobs he was able to pay against their debt.  
But there had come a time when the need had far exceeded anything they could hope to pay and been greater than the boy could bear, and the benefactor had quietly bid the physicians do what they could-made fearful by seeing the shadow of death in his childhood friend's eyes. _

_Yes, the nurses pitied the boy, but there was no hope to be found here. _

_The lady gasped, and the boy started, grief and anguish on his face. _

"_Noah…?" Her voice was broken by the struggle to draw breath, but he was leaning over her, gently touching her drawn face, love in his eyes. _

"_I am here, Mother. Don't worry. I am here." He smiled, for her sake, though her eyes had lost the ability to focus long ago. _

"_My Noah…" She whispered, and seemed for a moment eased. But then her breathing became labored once more as she fought to speak, "Tell…your brother…tell Basch…I love him."_

_With a sigh her words had ceased and the face had frozen in the mask of death. The boy who leaned over her bed had groaned in such sorrow that the attendants had turned their faces away as he fell to his knees at her still side. _

_How long had he knelt at her bedside, weak from sorrow, silent tears flooding from his tired eyes? _

_The benefactor had been summoned from his business too late to farewell his old friend and had arrived only to place a hand on the heaving shoulder of her son.  
"I'm sorry, Noah. I do wish there had been more I could have done."_

"_No…sir, please…I am…I am grateful. I will…I will repay you…I…"  
It had been difficult for the benefactor to listen as the boy struggled to speak. It was as if after these months of struggle, his mother's passing had taken the last of his own breath and strength. _

"_Shh…now, don't let's speak of such things today. There will be time for that later on." The man had offered the boy his hand, and Noah had found the strength to stand. _

"_Don't worry yourself about arrangements. I will see to it." The man had gently taken charge, and the boy had not been able to argue. He had nothing with which to pay for a memorial of any quality.  
Within two days they stood in a peaceful garden cemetery, where the man owned several plots in __preparation of a respectable burial for himself and his family, and lay to rest the beloved mother and friend.  
Noah had stood looking at the lonely grave, marked by an angelic stone guardian, and thought numbly of his father and the babe his mother had lost when he and Basch were too young to remember.  
It was too late. Their family was severed forever in this life..._

_Their benefactor had sent word to Dalmasca, and Noah had looked past the shade of trees and down the path, harboring hope that he might find his brother's familiar form. _

_Hope had given way to disappointment and finally turned to anger as day had slowly melded into night._

_That anger had sustained him when his mother's friend had sent for him with news meant to lighten the burden of debt left upon his shoulders._

"_I regret sorely that my influence cannot do more. I yet have friends, but I fear my name is not as pleasant as once it was with them. Still, I do not fear this for you. You are strong and young. You will prove yourself. Of this I have no doubt. Take this position and use it to make your own place, Noah." And then the man had paused, looking at the papers in his hand with sudden hesitance. "…Unless you meant to go elsewhere?" _

_The question was unspoken, but Noah had understood. "Unless you mean to join your brother, and fight against us."_

"_No, sir. …I thank you." Noah had taken the papers in his hand with a strained spirit and turned for the door. _

"_Noah?"_

_Noah had turned back to the man, seated behind the desk of his study and surrounded by papers of business. "Yes, sir?"_

"_I…have a son. There may be a day he is also in need."_

"_I will not forget what you have done for my mother-or for me." Noah assured his benefactor quietly._

"_The debt is not as large as you might think. Your mother and I were like brother and sister as children. I was glad to be of service and wish... Ah well… Only know, all that I ask is that if my son finds himself friendless you would not leave him so."_

"_I will remember."_

"_Yes…I do believe you will."_

_The next night had been passed in the barracks of the Archadian army._

Noah felt the familiar poison spreading through his veins. The conflict that had driven sleep from his eyes and made restless his steps for so many years.  
The honor of shielding young Larsa had eased the pain and steeled his resolve. And now and then pride in those he fought beside had given him reason to be glad of the loyalty he had sworn.  
But even now, after he had accepted blame and given Basch his hand and his trust-for Larsa's sake…  
Even now when he had thrown off hate and accepted the fullness of shame…  
Even here, in this crowd of strangers…  
Still he wished to call out, _"Basch, what did you expect of me then? What do you expect of me now?"_  
Now, as then, his brother was silent, and Noah could not guess his heart's intent…

* * *

"Hi!"

Faolyn jumped at the sound of the voice at his left shoulder, and he spun to face the figure defensively.

The boy was some inches shorter than Faolyn with shoulder length black wavy hair and dark blue eyes. His skin was of a warm tone, making him seem especially dark beside Faolyn's paleness. His garb was that of Rozarrian nobility.

Tarachande growled and started to reach again for Faolyn's arm but then stopped. The boy was just about Faolyn's own age, just a little less perhaps. When was the last time Faolyn had interacted with a peer? The old man watched guardedly, but did not interfere.

"That's a wicked knife!" The boy reached over and reverently touched the ornately twisted handle that was revealed outside the carved leather sheath.

"If you like it so, you should buy one." Dwen's voice was hard, and she leaned forward to stare at the boy.

"Dwen!" Kasan raised and dropped his arms, astounded.

"What? He looks like he can afford it!" Her voice was sharp, but she turned into the tent, muttering something about a needle and thread. And then she yelled back to him, "Don't you dare give anything else away! You hear me?"

Kasan sputtered an embarrassed laugh as all eyes turned to him.  
"If, uh, you need me, I'll be over here-working."

"Let's walk." Tarachande directed Faolyn away from the booth, and the other boy hurried to keep pace.

"What's your name?" The boy asked forwardly.

The tone and expression revealed only friendly interest, but Faolyn bristled. "What's _your_ name?"

"You may call me _Wayrah_." The boy breathed the name and drew it out like it floated in on the wind, "Today I am Prince of all that I see." He threw his arms out theatrically, and surveyed the grounds around him with a ruling air. "Tomorrow I am a pauper or a begger." These dubious titles he spoke tragically, and then his tone turned sinister. "Or a rogue, a _liar_, or a thief."

"Are you a player?" Tarachande motioned toward the stage upon which a play was soon set to begin.

The boy grinned, but his mask shifted to sadness, "Are not we all, dear sir, players upon some stage?"

"Oh be quiet-or just go away. That would be better." Faolyn glowered so darkly that Tarachande wondered if it might be best for all concerned if the boy did abandon them, and yet he was still curious to watch the disjointed interaction.

"Faolyn," he reminded softly, "Do not be rude."

Faolyn continued to fume silently and sped up his step, attempting to leave the slightly shorter legs behind, but the boy fairly danced along the path, keeping time with Faolyn's longer stride, and his face never shed its friendly grin.

"Faolyn, I like that name."

"Good for you." Faolyn tried slowing down and changing to the opposite side of Tarachande, but the boy simply followed him to that place as if his own shadow was tied to Faolyn's.

"It's so very unique. I like how it feels on the tongue, don't you? It tastes wild and free… Faolyn-Faolyn-" He whispered the word in different pitches, testing it, and his accent, somehow Rozarrian but not, gave a musical sound to the name.

Faolyn shot him a despising look, but the other lad seemed not to notice.

At the sectioned off area for the makeshift theater, Tarachande stopped.  
"Perhaps you boys might like to watch the play. I will stay back here, but you go on and take a better seat." He said it mildly, but Faolyn whirled like he'd been threatened with grievous harm.

"No!"

"Faolyn, see the play." Tarachande insisted quietly as Wayrah pretended not to notice-or perhaps he truly did not. The boy was spellbound by the players and minstrels that were converging on the place.

"I don't _want_ to watch the play! Not with _him_!"

"It won't hurt you." Tarachande held up his hand firmly as Faolyn readied to argue again. "Listen, boy, I'm an old man and tire much more easily than you young ones. I must have a moment's peace! Now, you suffer your would-be friend for a few minutes longer. I wager he'll not even notice your presence during the play. I'll sit here in the back and rest and wait. Perhaps by the time the play is through your guardian will have finished with whatever it was he felt he must do, and we can find a place to settle for the evening. That, in and of itself, is no pleasant thought to me. If I can endure the promise of a night sleeping on the hard earth, you can endure this, I assure!"

"Fine." Faolyn huffed slightly, so uncomfortable with the turn of events that he could barely take the seat offered him. He concentrated desperately on ignoring the talkative stranger at his side.

As fortune would dictate, the play began sooner than he'd realized, and the boy beside him was, as the old man had predicted, too enthralled to be a burden. Faolyn relaxed, breathing deeply and not even bothering to listen to the words of the players. His mind was on his guardian and the hope that perhaps the artist would strike a bargain that would allow Noah a weapon more worthy of him.

A smattering of handclaps broke Faolyn from his thoughts, and he saw that one scene was past and another upon them. Unable to again concentrate on his thoughts, Faolyn halfheartedly began to listen to the tale. The protagonist was a poor lad who must endure prison, fight giants, and be tormented by all manner of misfortune. By the end, however, the hero had conquered all as he proved his worth and honor, winning the hand of the one he loved-who turned out to be the princess, of course.

The crowd cheered and rose as the last bows were taken, but Faolyn shook his head, "Ridiculous."

Wayrah turned to him suddenly-fiercely. "Why? Why ridiculous? Why _shouldn't_ he live? Why _shouldn't_ love win? Would you rather he die hurt and alone and thinking no one cares?" The torment in the boy's eyes startled Faolyn.

Unwillingly, Faolyn's thoughts turned to his guardian, to the pain and suffering he had witnessed in Noah's stormy eyes-though always his protector tried to hide these things.  
"I didn't say he should _die_ or that he shouldn't be loved. But _that story_ was ridiculous! Things don't just work out like that."

"But don't you _wish_ they did?" Wayrah's voice was sad, and Faolyn was bothered-his own hands were trembling so that he clenched his fists against the vibrations. Wayrah continued softly. "Don't you wish you knew that everything you went through would be worth it, because you would find something beautiful someday…somehow?"

"What's _wrong_ with you? No one talks like that." Faolyn threw the blunt proclamation and turned his head away, physically made ill with anxiety by Wayrah's relentless and unexpected attack on his solitary spirit.

"You've met a lot of people then. And not met me." Wayrah's return was every bit as blunt, and there was a touch of hurt and accusation to be found within.

"Wayrah!" A hard, commanding voice brought Wayrah's head around, and he was suddenly changed.

"Yes, sir?" He swallowed, and at once stood strong at Faolyn's side.

"Where have you been, _son_? Your mother is worried. Come."

Wayrah nodded rapidly. "Of course, Father. I am sorry."  
He hurried to the side of the tall, black haired man who looked Faolyn over with dark eyes like stones.

"Introduce me to your friends, Wayrah." The boy's father put a large, gloved hand around the back of his son's neck possessively.

"Yes, father. This is Faolyn," Wayrah motioned to the pale boy and then turned to the old man and stumbled, "And-I'm sorry, sir, I-it seems I did not ask your name."

The old man stood and approached the boy's father. "Father Tarachande, they call me. And you are?"

The man grasped Tarachande's hand tightly without letting the other off his son.  
"I am Dimas Apolinar. I hope my son has brought no trouble to you."

Tarachande returned the direct gaze and laughed lightly. "No trouble. He accompanied us to this play. We were glad to have him."

"Is this so?" Dimas Apolinar turned his eyes to Faolyn who stood still and silent.

Faolyn's eyes shot quickly to Tarachande, whose own eyes met his gaze with a meaningful return. Faolyn looked to Wayrah, who had fallen ashen under his warm tone, lips tight and eyes full of indecipherable emotion. "No trouble." Faolyn said shortly, and Wayrah's lips turned fleetingly to a slight, thankful smile.

And then they were gone.

Tarachande rumbled deep in his throat, and Faolyn watched his face as they joined one another.

"I don't like that man." The old man muttered the words. "Perhaps we should be more careful of who we invite for friend."

Faolyn was restless and troubled. "I want to find Noah."

Tarachande studied him carefully and sighed, turning his eyes to the surrounding cluttered paths and mingling crowds. "Yes, boy, for once I share your mind and will be glad to see our friend."

* * *

"Did I not tell you, boy, to stay with your keepers?" The fierce voice spoke low and deep.

"Yes, sir." The young voice trembled.

"You _will not_ disobey my command." The decree was hard.

Gisela Apolinar heard the first sharp cry and shut the door that closed her room off from the rest of the rented house, laying her head among the pillows and closing her eyes to dreams.


	14. Mistaken

"It is a beautiful evening, isn't it, Basch? The sky is such an interesting hue… To be granted opportunity to behold such wonders gives one cause for gratitude in this at the least despite all else." Larsa's voice was reflective and serious.

"Yes, my lord. Truly it is. And truly it does." Basch answered quietly.  
The color of the horizon was almost as it had been that day…though one would find no wheat or sand in this place of landscaped gardens and cobbled streets. Still the warm blend of light touched the leaves and washed the turrets with a glow.

Larsa smiled, and the two resumed their walk along the palace grounds, enjoying the statuesque fountains and exotic birds that fluttered through the air and nested among the small trees.

"Your proposal for Old Archades is being debated in the Senate." Basch offered the topic for consideration.  
He knew fully that the young leader was agonizing over the chances of success.

"The Senate will contest my plans as overmuch at this time, I fear. Even so, it is my full belief that the people of Old Archades will quickly justify our actions and themselves repair this tear in our nation, adding to our collective prosperity their own, if we will only allow."  
Larsa paused to take a breath and redirected his thoughts.  
"Already the Trade Agreement with Dalmasca has strengthened our economy as well as the peace. And the deserved aid and recognition for our warriors has helped restore and mend many of our own to civilian life with honor-or comfort their families left unprotected financially by their passing. In this we owe you much, my friend. I will not forget."

Basch was silent, uncomfortable with taking credit, but Larsa did not notice. The young leader's face was suddenly grim and he returned to the prior subject. "Not least in all in this is the support we seek for the children left abandoned. It is of utmost import that we see our future as an Empire tied to theirs." Larsa's impassioned words trailed off, and he turned to his guardian with concerned eyes. "Do you think the Senate will approve?"

The children…the fate of the young ones had troubled Larsa's peace since the moment he had looked on them.

Basch could not simply agree to ease Larsa's mind. He valued the young Emperor's ability and keen understanding as equal in strength to his heart and conscious. He would not diminish him with a pretty lie. "…I cannot say, Larsa. I have observed much prejudice against those who have fallen to impoverishment in Old Archades, perhaps because those who have not fear that fate so. Will they allow those who were systematically shunned the opportunity to compete for prosperity or see this measure of freedom as a threat to tradition and their power? I believe it will be highly contested."

Larsa's eyes were sad. "…Do _you_ think I ask too much?"

"No, Larsa. You are right in the wish to restore your people. Do not lose faith. You have won friends, and the people make their voice heard daily on your behalf. Continue for them. You give them hope."

"As you give hope to me, my friend. Always." The young Solidor did not say_, As I draw strength from you, dear Basch...I hope I do not ask more than my share._

Larsa's eyes were bright with emotion, and Basch reached an armored hand to rest briefly on Larsa's shoulder in an encouraging gesture.

"Did you answer the letters you chose today?" Basch asked lightly, hoping to take a measure of the weight from the young shoulders which just now had seemed strained.

Many of the letters were quite serious and burdened the young leader with the trials of the people. Always these heartfelt pleas or messages of loss and sorrow he answered as if the pain they felt was his own. But, thankfully, not all were of such a grim nature.

Basch turned his head, unable to help smiling as he recalled that one scented message had been from a young Bhujerban from an all girl's school. She had expressed her undying devotion and gratitude for all "_Dearest Larsa_" was suffering on behalf of Ivalice. There had even been included a substantial poem lauding the young Emperor. _"Ode to Larsa."_

Basch first had it confirmed that the scent was of floral extract and was not poisonous. He then had the girl's background checked and her identity authenticated before allowing the letter through. But she was as she represented herself: a thirteen year old student with _"I heart Larsa"_ carved into her school desk. Larsa had turned the most peculiar shade as he read the many pages, and he had selected it among the percentage he would personally respond to before sending the remaining, more mundane messages with Basch, to be answered by an assistant-under Gabranth's careful review.

"Oh. Well…" Larsa once again blushed, and then he turned serious eyes to Basch's unmasked face. "Basch…did you ever…have you…" Larsa stopped speaking and started walking. The next words from his mouth were a change of theme. "My but aren't the birds happy today, Judge Magister?"

"Yes." Basch smiled. They walked a few yards down the path and across the lawn, allowing Larsa time to unwind and rest his mind after a tedious day-and his guardian to attempt the same. "It was quite kind of the nice young lady from Bhujerba to write you her support. Such sentiment is gratifying, seeing she does not call Archadia home."

"Look there, Basch! I see a dove!" Larsa's voice was slightly high.

"Indeed! Lovely! …What was her name?"

"Eira." Larsa suddenly stopped and turned to Basch with such embarrassment in his eyes that all mild amusement fled and Basch's face was at once apologetic and concerned.  
But Larsa just stood frozen, as if wishful of speaking but unable, and then he looked away, troubled.

"Forgive me, Larsa. I did not intend you harm." Basch said softly, and Larsa looked up at him with unsettled eyes. The expression on his face was every bit the young boy he was.

"Of apology there is no need. I am being foolish to act so."

"No, Larsa, not foolish. These feelings you experience are quite normal. This young lady admires you, and that you are flattered by her affection is to be expected and understood. There is no shame in it."

"She speaks of Larsa Solidor as a champion, and that one does not exist." Larsa was suddenly grieved, his eyes staring at the earth.

"Maybe." Basch spoke with all seriousness. "And maybe she is closer to truth than you believe. But do not let it worry you. When you are ready, when it is time, you will find one who will love you for the heart that beats inside. Until then, take these moments along the way and add them to the pages of your memory."

Larsa breathed deeply, a sigh of relief at the reassurance his guardian's words brought.  
"Surely then you have faced such unsettling incidents?"

Basch allowed a rare, unfettered smile. "Allow me to relate a story from my own past…"

They sat upon an ornate bench, and Basch stretched his long black-clad legs.

"I was thirteen and did not even know enough to realize she liked me. All I knew was that she somehow happened always to be wherever I went."

"_Hi, Basch! Are you going into town? Really? Me too! I'll walk with you!"_

"I suppose I knew that she enjoyed our friendship, but I was not willing to admit to more on either her part or mine."

"_Basch, I don't know why people think you and your brother look alike. You are much more handsome. No, really, it's true!"_

"For the better of a month it went on."

"_Hey, Basch! Let's go hiking today! I'll race you up the trail!"_

"But there was something else I didn't see…"

Noah…

"_Who invited her?"_

_The little girl at Basch's side had given Noah a peculiar smirk that she'd never used on Basch, and Basch saw his brother's lips tighten and nostrils flair._

"_I am with Basch!" The little girl's hands had wrapped around his arm._

_Noah scowled, "Of course you are." He turned to his brother with a strict warning: "I'm not doing your part of the work! Don't bother asking!"_

Basch smilingly confessed to Larsa,"I did do my chores. But I must admit that during that month I was not home as often as before to be the one asked to do the additional work. Noah was…less than pleased."

_Putting it most mildly._

"_Do you maybe want to go swimming tomorrow, Basch? It looks like it'll be a nice day for it."  
This agreeable offering had come from his brother after a week of the budding friendship-a week in which he and Noah had barely seen one another save at dinner and work. _

"_Oh, uh, well…" Basch was uncomfortable at best._

"_What?" Noah's surprise and confusion had been genuine and then turned slowly to a heated glare as understanding came. "…Oh. Fine. Go with her then! I don't care!"_

_The door to their room had pulled through its sturdy frame with the impact of that slam, and neither of them had gone anywhere that day…  
Not that the enforced togetherness, as they mended the frame and spent the evening confined to their room, had brought them any resolution. _

"_We can go swimming tomorrow, Noah. Maybe before breakfast?" Basch had attempted to negotiate, feeling guilty in the knowledge that he had spent more time with his new friend than his brother of late-and knowing that she would be waiting after he finished his morning meal to go fly kites as they'd already planned. _

"_Forget it. You don't want to keep the girl waiting, do you?" Noah had turned his back and curled up in bed, feigning sleep to avoid Basch._

"_Maybe she could come swimming with us."_

_This had brought Noah at once out of his pretense with a violent start and gave Basch cause to worry that if his brother's hand found the book near the bed they might be inside for the rest of the weekend, patching a hole in the wall or polishing a new window pane. _

"_Or maybe just us…after I get home from-"  
Basch had stopped when Noah glowered at him murderously. _

"_I don't want to go swimming anymore, Basch! Just forget it already! It was a stupid idea anyway. Go spend the day with that girl. Why should I care?" _

_Noah had jumped off the bed and stormed into the washroom, staying so long that Basch had begun to think he'd fallen asleep or taken ill, but eventually Noah had returned to resume his position of facing the wall, away from his brother's eyes. _

"For the couple of weeks I spent my free time with her, by _accident _or plan. It was all a very new experience then… I did not see it, but I was flattered that she would wish my company. Now and then I mentioned to her that I planned to invite my brother along on our excursions, but he was too irritable to risk my asking again." Basch laughed softly at the memory, and Larsa's watched his guardian's face closely, glad to see the gentled eyes. "One day she came home with me. I went up to my room to change, and when I came down I could hear my friend laughing and talking with my mother. Not wishing to disturb them from their conversation, I left to do my outside work."

_When she appeared in the door of the storage shed, Basch had been happy to see her and almost gave himself away with a familiar greeting. The stern slap to his cheek had silenced him and shocked him to the core._

"_What did I do?" He had managed, hurt and confused._

"_You know what you are doing!"She hurled the accusation bitterly. "I've told you before-don't get between Basch and me. He's mine! Understand?" She had shoved him and hurried back out the door. Basch followed her to the doorway in time to see her intercept Noah as he was coming from the house. She had wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her face to his, and then she was gone, running down the path toward her own home. _

_And there Noah had remained, frozen like a statue, arms limp at his sides._

"_I am sorry, Noah." It had been easy enough to say, with his own cheek stinging and the hurtful accusations meant for his brother in his own ears._

_But a smile had come to Noah's face that continued to spread as he lifted a finger and touched his lips with a dreamlike expression. "I'm not!"_

_They had immediately enjoyed a rowdy game of tag, chasing one another around the house and into the trees, before their mother had called them inside. The mangled night had untangled itself, leaving the brothers out of breath and exhausted as they climbed the stairs to collapse in their bed, happy in their new confusion. _

"Oh my!" Larsa's eyes widened. "She mistook the two of you for each other."

Basch laughed. "Yes. Yes, she did." He would not mention that if not for the girl's mistake that night, things between the brothers might well have continued to deteriorate. It had been a fortunate mistake, and the sting had not lasted as long as it might have otherwise...

"And what happened?" Larsa prodded curiously.

"I told her I couldn't see her again. It was for the best." Basch would not disturb Larsa with the question of whether with the passing of a couple more years he might have chosen the girl over his brother. Such was the way of things… War had taken that choice and given him another.

She had blamed Noah, of course, for Basch's absolute and unexplained decision, but Noah had grinned and welcomed her anger. Eventually she had proclaimed the both of them worthless and found a new object of her admiration, in the form of a boy _without_ a sibling to rival her.

"Oh!" Larsa exclaimed. Clearly he'd expected a less abrupt conclusion-as had Basch's mother. She had attempted to encourage Basch, with no success, toward settling his differences with the girl.

What his mother could not have known is that on that day at such a young age Basch had made himself a vow that he would not again be so easily swayed…that the next love to attempt a claim on his heart would only be allowed if that love were true.

Basch watched a bird take wing, and to him it seemed instead the unfurling of the flag of Dalmasca-and within the banner the form of one whose charge he had for a time so solemnly held. His heart ached just a little.  
And then the wind changed, and there rippled the Archadian standard, upon it the crest of House Solidor. His once despised enemy had now become the keeper of his oath, and, looking into Larsa's young face, Basch could not allow himself a wish to grieve.

"The experience was a strange one, certainly. There was no map to follow, and I could find few clues. I confess, in many ways it all left me more perplexed than before. Still, I don't regret it. I don't regret it at all."

Larsa smiled slyly, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "I will answer the letter if you tell me what your young lady's name was."

Basch thought for a moment on the question of whether it would be better to have forgotten or to remember that first crush for Larsa's sake, but, whatever the case, he simply told the truth.  
"Her name was Hala." His lips turned to a soft smile as he recalled that innocent time, and Larsa's face shared the same gentleness as he witnessed the far-off look in his guardian's eyes.

As the sky began to darken at the first touch of night Larsa rose, "Very well, Basch, I suppose I should return to my quarters. There is a letter to compose."

* * *

Night fell peacefully and Basch walked onto the parapet to greet the moonlight that bled its milky glow into the black sky. Dawning found him the same, having passed a few hours between in such sleep as could be found between the shadow of memory and dream. He had risen, as always, before the sun to begin his busy day.

Every day had its challenges, and for Larsa he prayed this day would go well.  
Soon they would know the mood of the Senate, for Larsa himself would be called upon to defend his initiative before the body.

The Senate might have conceded and credited themselves in the passing of the last contested measure, but Larsa was becoming day by day a force to be reckoned with.  
Basch could feel the Senate steeling itself to secure its own power. It had not been forgotten in the atmosphere of peace and restoration that Vayne Solidor had disbanded and dishonored them.  
Larsa's own reconciliatory measures of reinstating the body, while accepted as being only right and proper, had grated upon the Senate's pride at the very need for such an act.

These political games disturbed Basch, who would that the powers within the Empire might work together to strengthen the whole. The relationship between Vayne and the Senate had clearly been a divisive one, fraught with animosity and intrigue, but Basch did not wish to see Larsa's young spirit and resolve torn by contention. Well he knew that war and peace each had their battlegrounds and struggles of power. The paths and pains were different, and yet each course inflicted its scars. Such was the way, and the young leader could not avoid it.

Basch drew a deep breath.  
It was time.

As they settled into the hovercar, Basch turned to Larsa and spoke with the voice of the Gabranth that was. "Today you fight for peace, and your weapon is the hope in your words. Never let this be taken from you, my lord. Hold fast, and strike hard."

"Yes, Judge Magister Gabranth." Larsa answered formally, but there was the familiar gratitude and affection in his eyes, and he pressed Basch's hand.

"You will do well." Basch encouraged very quietly, in his own low tone.

Larsa looked to him with full eyes. "I do as I must," he returned as quietly.

A shadow crossed Basch's face. _As I must…_

The rest of the ride was passed in silence.

Gabranth exited the hovercar first, making a careful visual sweep of the grounds and the steps to the Senatorial Chamber. He took in the members of the Guard posted in several defensive positions before stretching forth his armored hand to give Larsa the sign that all was well and help him from the craft.

Larsa, clothed in his finest robes, looked more the Emperor than ever in the set of his eyes and the seriousness of visage.  
He emerged into the light of day and into the protective covering of Gabranth, who took an immediate place as shield behind the boy.  
Any who would think to strike now would first find Gabranth's body as the deflector, as had always been since the name Gabranth had first become known in the service of House Solidor.

Flanking the polished stone steps were somber statues depicting the fathers of the Senate holding scrolls of the law or with hands outstretched in debate and exhortation.  
The granite doors of the Great Hall were opened wide for the young leader, but no herald would announce his arrival-Larsa wished as little fanfare as allowed by tradition, a desire the Senate was for once happy to oblige.

They made their way into the vestibule where stoic stone columns rose from elaborate bases and met the ornamented ceiling with carved capitals.  
From there Gabranth escorted Larsa through the private side entrance that would allow him to take his place with as little disturbance as possible.

The first Senator set the tone. "Already we have been asked to drain our resources for a war where we can claim no victory. Already we have been asked, and agreed to, a trade agreement that provides as much for the economic support of our enemy as our homeland. Now you would turn our own citizens against us?"

The second aged voice seamlessly took over the cause of the first. "Are we to be held responsible for every ill decision made by your House and our citizenry? My lord, we will find ourselves bankrupt!"

The questions and accusations continued one by one. They were prepared.

"There are orphanages plenty. Perhaps, Grace, you are unaware."

Basch stood waiting close enough as to be at Larsa's side in a heartbeat but far enough as to not seem overpowering. Behind his helm he grimaced at the heartless droning, and felt the heat of indignation rising at the patronizing tone taken with the young leader.  
But Larsa stood tall, though his profile was pale and Basch could tell, though none else might, that Larsa's fists were clenched beneath the full sleeves of his rich tunic.  
"Strike hard, Larsa. Strike hard." Basch whispered, and Larsa spoke.

"Gentlemen. The Empire won a great victory the day the war ceased. The Empire won honor and pride in the securing of this peace."

Basch thoughtfully processed the young Solidor's description of the war's end. The words were not untrue but sounded strange to the ears of a former Captain of a Resistance land.

Larsa did not pause for Basch's thoughts to keep pace. "...It is on our shoulders to keep these. We will win another great victory the day we raise our countrymen to their feet." His voice strengthened, and his frame relaxed but seemed stronger yet as conviction powered him. "Their shame is our shame. If we do not wish to be left to shoulder the burden of all, and so crumble beneath this heavy load, we must provide a path for our brothers and sisters to succeed and not only to survive." His fervor rose. "Esteemed Senators, with all due respect, we have not such a path at present, and this is our disgrace. We have closed the door to restoration, and say to those who have fallen, _'Stay as you are! Do not look to us for hope or help!'_ The situation of our people will continue to fail if we do not have the courage to act on their behalf." He turned his eyes around the circle of faces. "I pray you consider your children, your grandchildren, your brothers and sisters. The sons and daughters of Archadia should not be left to languish in the streets without hope."

"What of the orphanages, your Grace?" If it was all they could grasp as an argument they would take it.

"It is good you ask, Senator, for too many of the orphanages of which you speak are ill run and overfull. I am glad to know of your concern. You will be interested to know that here I have a detailed report showing the unacceptable conditions in which live even these children who have found shelter. It is a disgrace that we cannot afford if we hope to keep our honor."

Basch closely watched the faces of the Senators. There was anger there. Larsa was fencing them in, and they did not appreciate his strong tone and aggressive stance.

"We will do what we must to preserve the honor of Archadia, my lord." The voice of the Senator was edged, and Basch tensed. Was there a threat in those words?

"This will take time to sort out. We will require a copy of your reports, as well as the expenses you expect to be incurred, and your expectations of how these might be refunded. " This voice was dry. They were intent on stalling.

"They have been prepared. You will find all the materials necessary. I am most desirous of working with this highly revered body to reach a solution." Larsa's voice was calm. He had recognized the tone of the Senate and worked now to appease these haughty legislators. Basch inwardly pained for the boy. He should not have to bow to this arrogant number…yet in this way he must.

"We will study the matter and revisit the issue when the particulars have become clear."

"I will also continue to consider what improvements might be made and meet with the people to ascertain their needs. I look forward to our next soon meeting, gentlemen." Larsa nodded his head, but there was strength in his words and an underlying warning that made clear he would not allow this issue to be shoved aside and forgotten-indeed that he would use his popularity with the people as a weapon if necessary. The Senate understood. It could be seen on every darkened brow that was fixed upon the young Solidor.

Basch's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the sword at his side. He rarely carried the swords joined together as his brother often had, not being used to that style of fighting. He was adjusting though, training in his spare time-mostly in the middle of the night when he could no longer sleep. Now and then he caught himself thinking, _"Noah will never let me forget this,"_ when in these private sessions some awkward use of the joined blades caused him to grimace. But then he would force that thought away with a twinge of regret... Noah was gone.

Larsa signaled the meeting was over, and the Senate deigned to rise in a show of respect for their leader's exit. Gabranth shielded the young Emperor with increased zealousness and intensity of manner that dissuaded any from approaching as they passed down the stairs and toward their secure, always-guarded hovercraft.

Larsa was silent upon the return trip, and Basch could sense his discouragement. He too remained silent. There was nothing he could find to say. Finally he reached over and patted Larsa's hand.  
Larsa leaned his head upon Basch's shoulder, closed his tired eyes, and slept.

* * *

Heavy rain fell and the sky was darkened outside though it was yet early in the day.  
Basch sat at his large desk reading reports and jotting notes when the methodical pounding of weighted steps alerted him to a soldier's approach.

When the heavy door was opened to him, the soldier stood there drenched by the rain..

"Judge Magister Gabranth. A message for you, Your Honor."  
The guard bowed and gave the envelope into the Judge's hands before retracing his path.

Basch broke the seal and removed the carefully folded sheet. He read the message, and then read it once more, as if he could find something within the few words he'd not first seen.

_Judge Magister Gabranth,  
Your Honor, I request a meeting.  
Most urgent.  
Concerns my son, Kasan Ranel.  
My home.  
Your servant,  
~Madame Haleine Ranel_


	15. The Broken Frame & Missing Thread

Basch took the streets by foot, his long, black Judge Magister's cape heavy in the rain and slapping against his armored boots.  
Beads of water ran down his armor, and from behind the helm Basch saw the world through a sheet of gray as the floodgates seemed to open and pour upon them.

The rain might have been cold. It appeared by the civilians he met along his way that indeed it was.  
They rubbed their arms, hugged their own bodies, or held papers over their heads as they scurried into the doorways of inviting cafés and beneath the metal or wood awnings of merchant shops to wait out the dreary deluge. There were no children playing on the street in this rain, and commerce had all but ceased as everyone sought a dry, warm place to hide away.

The lampposts were lit even though it was only approaching the noon hour, but the light made only a strange glare upon the cobblestone.

_Concerns my son, Kasan Ranel… _What did it mean?

Basch recalled the artist's pained and conflicted manner when last they had met.  
Surely this man would not have caused himself harm for the sake of Gabranth?  
Basch felt weight added to the burden he bore.  
Did the lady seek him out for retribution?  
Was there no peace he could offer? No hope he could bring?

As he passed by Ila Wittekind's restaurant, Basch glanced toward the warmly lit pane and felt a twinge of wistfulness for the companionship of someone who had found pleasant the name Gabranth.  
He continued on.

The wooden shop sign was faded and the paint was chipped. It still read _Inar Ranel.  
_There was a small notice _"Closed"_ in the window_, _and there were no lights shining within.

Basch was suddenly guarded…

Instincts honed and skills built up by the years of furtive missions and innumerable hours spent watching for some unnamed, lurking danger called to him, and his senses became increasingly alert.  
Bypassing the front door of the Ranel home, Basch slipped into the shadow of the wall and held himself to the cold surface, rounding the corner from the sidewalk into the alleyway.

The hoverbike he saw sitting almost invisible in the darkened, narrow passage. And beside it, hunkered in the rain, the form of a muscled man.  
If not for how his eyes had learned to see what was nearly undetectable and to catch the subtleties of mannerisms and situations, Basch would not have noticed the figure dressed all in gray and shrouded by shadow and rainfall.  
This was no place to take shelter. There was no shelter here to take.  
The man was miserable in his situation, that was clear, and yet he stayed…waiting…  
For _what?_ For _whom?_  
…For _Gabranth?_

Silently Basch moved toward the man, watchful of both his own back and of his target.  
Gabranth was beside the man, helmed visage staring ominously into his profile, before the man sensed another's presence and turned. Shocked, the prowler reached beneath his jacket for a weapon and opened his mouth to call out.

This act proved all of Basch's suspicions, and the man fell unconscious at his feet from a swift blow before ever he could speak or pull the weapon.  
The knife clattered to the street. Basch swiftly claimed it and then took the belt from about the man's waist to bind his hands, stuffing one of the man's own gloves into his mouth to quiet him if he should waken.  
Gabranth would return to claim him when this was done. Perhaps he would prove talkative after a night in a holding cell.  
Wryly Basch acknowledged that at the least the prisoner would find the conditions drier.

Who did the man mean to warn? This above all made Basch ever more wary.

The street was too quiet… A couple ran laughing by in the attempt to shelter one another and find greater refuge elsewhere. Their footsteps broke the sound of rain on stone, and Basch watched the two disappear with careful eyes and then returned his awareness to the setting at hand.

The side door to the Ranel shop, at the foot of which Basch's would-be assailant now rested, beckoned. Basch gave it only a distrustful look and continued stealthily on.

The lower level of the Ranel home was darkened, but there was one light on upstairs, which meant nothing. Vision from within would be best in darkened areas.  
He kept himself to the walls and avoided the windows carefully.

Basch stopped short. Was that a shadow in the window?  
Today he carried the weapon so fixed to the guise of Gabranth, and a twist of the pole separated the pommels and left the parted hilts to rest in his hands.

Suddenly Basch was aware of a strong desire to whisper into the darkness, "You go that way; I'll circle around." But there was no one here to answer him.

This was not Dalmasca. There was no Vossler...  
This was not the Resistance. There was no Balthier, no Fran, or Penelo, or Vaan…  
This was Imperial Archadia, where his only allies were strangers and looked to him for command but for no more.

This feeling of loneliness…he knew it from those first weeks and months after leaving home…  
He knew it from the dungeon where his own heartbeat was so often the only companion he knew…  
And here, in the cool, damp gloom on an Archadian street, he found it again…

"Judge Magister! Judge Magister Gabranth?"

A woman's voice, Haleine Ranel's voice, called quietly into the night.  
Her words, carrying from the front of the house, were barely above a whisper, and her tone…it had not the strength and will that her words had possessed when last they'd met.

Basch moved furtively toward the sound, weapons yet drawn and ready.

The eyes that stared out the window through a slivered part of the tapestries were calm and unconcerned. "You have done well. Do not fail now, my dear."  
The nobleman adjusted his fine gloves and gently ran a finger down the nape of Haleine's neck before he stepped back into the shadows. "Remember. …Be loyal, and you need not be afraid."

Haleine Ranel steadied her shaking hands against the door frame and called again into the dreary gloom, "Judge Magister? Are you there? Will you not come in out of the rain?"

"My lady." Basch's tone was half-Gabranth and half-his own.  
The racing of his heart, the peaking of his senses, took the two parts he played and made them one.

Haleine looked to the dark and menacing form that made her heart dread.  
Why after all this had he come?

"Please, Judge Magister. Come inside. I'm finding a chill."

"My apology, Madame."  
The Judge Magister took a step forward and then stopped, turning his head toward the clatter in the alleyway.

Haleine cried out, a courteous voice rebuked her tenderly, "I am sorely disappointed, my dear," and she fell.

Basch turned toward the sound, the window reflected the shimmer of flame, and Haleine cried out, _"No!"_

And all in the span of a heartbeat, like the falling of a drop of rain or the clapping of thunder, everything changed.

Basch whirled from exposure to the doorway, Haleine fell across the steps, a window pane shattered, and Basch reversed his motion.  
He propelled through the doorway and instinctively shifted toward the direction of his attacker-who was not alone.

The dual swords flashed in the light of lanterns and gunfire, and Basch felt the terrible reality of flesh and bone giving way beneath his blades.  
The rifle dropped to the ground, and Basch kicked it to the corner of the room, hearing it scraping the hardwood floor as it scattered away.  
A second came to join in the lethal dance before the first had time to fall, and Basch caught the raging sword between his own, whipping it from the hands of his enemy, and bringing the man to his knees.

Footsteps were pounding on the flooring, retreating. Basch grabbed his prisoner by the collar, pulling him to his feet and pushing the man forcibly ahead as he followed the echo.  
A pause in the steps and a pistol shot resounding caused Basch to bring his captive against the wall, away from harm, and then the steps picked up again and Basch raced on-half dragging the other man along.

They were too late.

As they burst through the side door of the Ranel shop, the hoverbike rose into the air and sailed away, leaving Basch helpless in its wake.

His eyes went to the prisoner he'd left bound to later retrieve, and he felt seething rage and nauseating torment rising in his chest.  
The man had obviously maneuvered himself to where he might kick over some crates stacked beside the shop, in hopes of attracting the attention of his mates.  
He had so done. And paid.  
His executioner had not even bothered to loose him before so coldly taking his life.

"I am sorry." Basch spoke in his own voice to the fallen enemy at his feet. He felt the man he firmly held captive in his grasp shift uncomfortably.

Basch heard the sound of armored boots pounding upon the cobblestone, and three of Archadia's guard appeared in the alleyway, swords drawn.

At the sight of the Judge Magister they to the man took a step back, as if unsure whether they'd happened upon some fateful thing they were not meant to see. But Basch called for them.

"You two, take this one to a secure cell. I will question him directly. Be alert. Do not let him out of your sight." He turned to the third. "You-come with me."

Basch quickly retraced his steps through the shop and house to Haleine Ranel's side. Crimson spread across the shoulder and down the front of her blouse. Her pulse was faint, but she yet lived.

"Summon a physician. I will see to her." Basch gave the command and the soldier obeyed.

"I don't understand." Basch spoke angrily to the unconscious woman as he pressed his hands to her wounds. And then he looked to the brooding sky, and rain obscured his sight as he whispered.  
"Noah, so help me! I don't understand! Why? Why…?"

"Gabranth!" A woman's voice interrupted his torment. He turned his head and saw her through the haze, Ila Wittekind, standing a reasonable distance apart, hair and clothing soaked by the rain. She waited his permission to give him aid. All he could do was nod, and she was beside him, pressing her fingers to the wound. Her voice was serious and soft. "Find bandages and a blanket. I'll do this."

"Yes, of course." Basch was a touch taken back but could not deny her aid.

Ila Wittekind looked up briefly to watch the tall figure disappearing into the corridors of the house and then turned back to the wounded lady with pondering eyes…

* * *

"Tell me who was behind this attack." Gabranth looked down at the prisoner who in turn looked down at the wooden table and his chained hands-and remained silent.

Basch was inwardly frustrated and reminded his prisoner with quiet intensity, "Whoever you are working for executed your friend. Does this not require answer?"

The prisoner's eyes shifted uncomfortably, and his hands tightened into fists.  
Basch could see the fear that crossed his face.  
And yet the words that came were intent on masking that fear.  
"Perhaps I am not friend to the one who died but the one who lived."

Basch sensed the man fighting to maintain the secret- fighting for his life.

"It will be difficult for me to protect you, Evit, without information to stop this senseless violence."

The man's eyes rapidly blinked, and he laughed. Basch recognized the strong panic there.

"I can help you, Evit. You have to trust me." Gabranth insisted. Basch would see Gabranth kept his word.

But the captive shook his head and looked to the Judge Magister with eyes frightened not by his inquisitor but of something even more mysterious and much more cruel.  
"It's not like that." The prisoner's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're foolin' yourself if you think you can protect me. Was I you, I'd focus on takin' care of your little Emperor boy."

* * *

"Drop everything else. I want anything that can be had on Haleine Ranel, Kasan Ranel, Evit Lukan, Asa Edrid, and Tully Savoy. Family, friends, associations, criminal history, favorite color and food. Everything. With haste!" Gabranth growled the order, his heavy boots echoing on the cold floor.

"Yes, sir." The guard disappeared as swiftly and silently as he'd come, and Gabranth urgently made his way from his study, down the hallway, around the winding staircase, down a separate hallway, another staircase, another hallway…it seemed to never cease, but at last he stood in the palace medical quarters.

"How is she?" Gabranth removed the helm and tucked it beneath his arm.

Zargabaath turned from the window, watching the intently grim face of the other Judge Magister.  
"She may yet live."

Brow lowered over his blue eyes, Basch stared through the glass to the still body of this woman who had called for him.  
Was her intent revenge? Was she but inadvertently caught in the line of fire? Or had he stumbled into something grander of scale and vastly more sinister?

"You asked for me, Judge Magister Gabranth. I must assume you would not call me from my duties without reason of import." Zargabaath's tone was matter of fact as he awaited his colleague's report.

"There are two dead and this lady you see has been gravely wounded in an attack at her home."

"Sad, of course, but how does this incident warrant our strict attention? It seems quite simple. You will deal with the perpetrators, I have no doubt. The able physicians will see to this woman. I quite fail to see my part." Zargabaath lifted both hands in question.

"There are peculiar circumstances surrounding this attack. Our lord's safety is our first concern. His protection must take precedence over all else."

Zargabaath turned from the viewing area to study his fellow Judge Magister and found nothing given freely away.  
" You speak, as so oft, in riddles. But if it is our young lord's security that is in question, you have my hand. Tell me what you need."

"The watch has been put on alert. I ask you enforce the command that none are let in to see this lady or the prisoner. They must not be left unguarded. Take every precaution. I go to investigate and will return at the earliest hour possible. Our young lord's safe-keep will be in your hands until that time."

Zargabaath watched Gabranth walk away, heavy boots clanking on the stone, and turned back to the window with a sigh and frown. "As you wish, Gabranth. As you wish. Only be quick."

"Thank you, Zargabaath."

The reticent Judge Magister turned his head in sharp surprise at the dry response rumbling back to him down the hollow of the stone stairwell, and he shook his head with wry upturn of the lips.  
Irritating man. But then Drace had never chosen the easy path.

"Twenty-four hour guard. Sign the physician and medical team in and out. Check identities before allowing any contact. No exception," Zargabaath ordered the soldiers who stood watch, mildly unsettled by his colleague's manner.

The guard stationed themselves outside the door and along the passageways, signaling their respects to the seasoned Judge Magister as he passed by.

* * *

"Larsa." Basch looked down at the concerned eyes of the young Solidor. "It is my duty…and my honor, to protect you. Allow Judge Magister Zargabaath to remain at your side while I cannot. I would have you practice safety while I see to a matter."

"Of course, Basch. I depend upon your judgment and will do as you say. But…might I ask…?"

Basch was quiet. It was a polite query. The Emperor might not only ask but immediately demand. Larsa's trust was emphasized by that he did not so demand. "Not fully do I understand the issue myself, my lord. This is above all why I must ask your care. Perhaps resolution will prove a simple thing, but I would not have you compromised by my uncertainty."

"Thank you, Basch." Larsa nodded earnestly. "I will concentrate myself on reviewing the details of the proposal and leave the affair to you with full trust."

There again...trust.

Zargabaath entered, and Basch put a hand on Larsa's shoulder, letting it linger with affection longer than norm. Larsa noted his guardian's serious reflection and reached to place his own hand on that of his protector.  
Basch smiled to erase the lines of concern upon the young brow, but Larsa noted that his guardian's eyes retained their heaviness.

Larsa's gaze followed Basch as he donned the Judge Magister's helm and exited the chambers, welcoming Zargabaath in his place.

_Be safe, Basch…  
Please…Be safe. _

* * *

As the rain continued to fall, Basch stood in the vacant Ranel home, his eyes peering through shadows to assess the trail of crimson stains, broken glass, scattered books, and overturned furniture for any clues to his assailant's identity. The guards had taken the bodies and collected the weaponry…save the rifle he'd kicked into the corner. Basch scooped the weapon up and carried it beneath his arm as he climbed the stairs and walked through the doorway of Haleine's bedchamber.

Within, a broken frame leaned, twisted, against a dented wall. The feminine face that smiled to greet him from the canvas was young and soft. Through narrowed eyes Basch viewed the image like an abstract, adding subtle hardness to the still attractive features, a touch of bitterness to the eyes, frown lines around the lips… Haleine Ranel…  
The man with his arm around her shoulders was strange to him. The painting was of a then happy couple.

He picked up the notebook that lay beside the lady's bed and flipped through the pages, scanning the abysmal numbers. Clearly House Ranel suffered from burden of debt. The appearance of a profitable business…was it a farce? If not, where had the monies gone?

Basch tucked away the notebook and a stack of letters found inside a jewelry chest and moved along the winding hallway into what he assumed was the artist's room.

Everywhere he looked were papers with drawings and scatterings of raw materials, scavenged items, partially finished archetypes…but many of these projects wore a fine layer of powder and looked as if they'd been in their present state for a good long while.  
The room itself seemed by in large uninhabited. The bed was the only thing that showed sign of being in recent use, by its tangled mess of blankets and sheets. It seemed plain not even a housekeeper visited here…

Back into the hallway, and on to the end of the passage, he encountered a locked door.  
It was no match for his skill, and he was soon inside.  
If Kasan Ranel's room had seemed rarely visited, this room was a long deserted shrine.

Upon the large, solemn desk, amid a heavy powder of dust, lay a bouquet of dried flowers, petals having fallen around the ribbon-bound stems like they'd been plucked from their life-source and tossed there.

Two large canvases adorned the central wall, the same woman and man, now separated within their respective frames, older by at least a decade over the first, their smiles muted, and eyes showing hints of the trials that had brought about the change.

Inside a drawer of the desk he found a carefully kept letter of accommodation citing Kasan Ranel for distinguished bravery in the field...signed by his commander…Judge Magister Gabranth…

Basch fixed long on the signature and absentmindedly traced the scrawl with his own finger as if he could see, through another set of eyes, the ink flow the first time...

…How many letters of commendation or condolence to families of the slain had Basch himself now signed in the name of Gabranth? Like the times, the hand was not quite the same…

A medal lay unobtrusively beside the sheet of official royal stationary, and Basch picked it up, fingering the coolness of the engraved medallion and feeling the raised lines of the Archadian symbol against his thumb as he meditated.  
The letter and medal were returned reverently to their place, and the drawer closed.  
By what cause had Kasan Ranel earned this reward…and by what cause came to this current state?

Again the picture of the artist's conflicted eyes and scarred shoulders crept forward, and Basch frowned, mulling over that image in light of the words before him. Some thread was missing…

As much as he wished against it, the question came. Was this commendation reward or penance?

Guilt that even after death he should find call to doubt his brother's honor…fear of being made blind by desire to forgive…the persistent longing to reach toward belief that would elude him and turn the page of division forever, gnawed at Basch.

Ill at ease, Basch walked around the room, sweeping his hand over the mantle of the fireplace.  
A block out of place tweaked the sensors of his mind and awakened him to the task in his care.  
Swiftly he dislodged the odd brick and reached into the cavern behind, withdrawing a worn journal.  
This too he kept and then abandoned the tomb-like air.

Basch made his way into the shop, taking time to see Kasan's handiwork and memorizing the signature details. He walked behind the counter and sorted the meager receipts. Days old. Clearly Haleine had for now left off seeing to the day to day operations.

He remembered the happy days when he and Noah had worked together, helping in their own family business. Once they had spoken carelessly of the day they'd take over the responsibility and continue their father's vision and their mother's inspiration together. How things had changed.

He passed from the show floor into the back and saw immediately that this was where Kasan spent his time. Everywhere were the signs of creative industry. …And yet, the only weapons here were in a state of barely begun. Either the current inventory was stored elsewhere or Kasan had taken the goods and gone.

Basch picked up the strange gargoyle piece and quickly deduced the intended use. A quick fitting, a twist, and the hidden was revealed…and yet there was nothing there to find.  
Disappointed, Basch returned the frozen horror to his rest.

Opening the back door, the Judge Magister stared out. Unlike the cul-de-sac to the side, this door opened to a prime blacksmith's setup. Tools were neatly placed and ready for use, but, again, no finished work to be found.

Basch stood silent for awhile and then passed through the side door into the street. Again he looked down at the vanishing stain where the unfortunate prisoner had been slain. This too ate at him. Never would he have subjected a captive to such a fate as this, to die bound and gagged in the street, yet he judged himself somewhat culpable, unintentional though was his sin. Such knowledge of his inability to control the circumstances pained him, and he said a silent prayer for the soul of his fallen foe as he passed on to the mouth of the alleyway and into the street.

Reflecting, Basch let the rain fall over his armor, mindful only of seeking out the skyline through the haze. Though he searched every doorway and window upon the street for sign of the enemy, his instincts told him he'd not find the culprit here… Long gone on the hover-bike was the aggressor.

His eyes turned without thought toward Ila Wittekind's restaurant, and he was taken back to see the form of the lady standing in the doorway. Plainly her vision was also upon him, for she raised a hand to offer the acknowledgement in a wave and then beckoned him to her. He went.

Her clothing was no longer bloody or rain-soaked, but she was cold, still wet-haired, standing there beneath the shelter of the overhang. As he approached she greeted him quietly.  
"Come on in, Gabby… Or are you wishful of standing in the rain…?"


	16. Invisible Cage

There was no sign of Dwen when Kasan stumbled from his dreams into the morning sun to rub his eyes, suppress a yawn, and stretch the muscles of his long arms.  
But she appeared, hair wet and skin shimmering from an early morning dip, before he'd finished preparing the pot of bitter coffee over an open fire.

"Yesterday was good," Dwen told him, and he looked to her with cautious eyes.

_For business or for them?_

"You brought in a good profit and garnered several commissions. Another couple weeks of this and you can forget the shop."

_For business… Why was he disappointed? _

And then she turned her eyes his way. "You should be proud."

"We make a good team, I think." He said it mildly, but her eyes sparkled, her lips upturned, and she reached a hand out to trip along his arm with her long fingers.

"Yes. We do."

She looked impish and he felt…light somehow. It was a strange sensation, this stirring of feeling, but not unpleasant. Not at all.

He reached down and took her hand, twining his fingers with hers, and she leaned into him, putting her head on his chest, as if this new breaking of old boundaries was a natural and simple thing.

"Look at that…" Kasan gave a surprised grunt, looking off in the distance where wisps of cinder seemed to climb like a spreading vine.

Dwen turned to follow his line of sight and her face paled, her hand tightening in his.

"Hey, I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sure it's just some of the players practicing or partying. Nothing to be bothered about. See-even now it fades."  
Kasan gave her hand a squeeze and then with his other hand gently twisted a curl that had fallen forward over her forehead.

She grasped his other hand and turned to him intently. "Kasan, let's go away."

He blinked in surprise. _Go away?_ …This new turn in their relationship was enjoyable but extremely new. Nothing had even been said between them to establish their feelings.  
"Dwen… I-"

"Kasan…please. Please listen to me. I care about you."

Kasan swallowed and licked his lips nervously. "Um, yes. I, uh, I care for you also, Dwen." He frowned in confusion and sought to disentangle his fingers from hers, but she held him firmly in her grasp.

"We could run away." Her eyes were brighter than he'd ever seen them. Her lips were pale. She was fairly trembling.

"Wh-what?" Kasan had seen too clearly what painful destruction hasty decisions and ill thought out moments of passionate could wreak upon innocent hearts; he had no plans to make these mistakes his own. His heart began to pull back, to close against the fear of such a rushed dive from the face of this hazardous precipice.

"We could start over. You and me." Her lips were trembling; her eyes were locked on his.

"Dwen…Dwen…" Kasan choked over the words, struggling to express what he did not understand. He forced a gentle laugh meant to ease Dwen away from this course, but her expression was pained.

"I could make you happy, Kasan. …Don't you want to be happy?" She whispered softly, desperately, reaching for his lips with her own.

He wanted to pull away but could not resist her. Somehow, without intent, he was carried away on the tide she had turned, and he could do no more than yield to her touch, swept into blindness.

"Hey! Can I get a little service here? I'll take some of what she's offering, if you're all out of weapons."  
Loud pounding on the table of wares and the calling of a rough voice broke the moment, and Kasan staggered from Dwen's caress, trying to force his eyes to focus on the face of the massive, balding warrior glaring at him.

As the glowering hulk of a man sorted through odds and ends of armor and tested the balance of a sword, Kasan inhaled the fresh air and threw a glance over his shoulder.  
Dwen was gone.

* * *

Noah's still-sore back reminded him that he'd managed to find only a few fitful moments of rest, lying on the ground at the mouth of their tent, keeping watch as protector throughout the night.  
But he did not resent his own pain. It was worthwhile if by it he knew Faolyn was safe.  
As for the old man…Noah had learned long ago that duty was not always a pleasant thing.

As the boy and old man browsed the booth ahead, Noah paused to carefully scan the crowd, looking for any sign of danger in any face.  
Momentarily satisfied, he picked up a book from the table beside him, ruffling through the pages with mild interest.

"Can I help you?" The Moogle adjusted his monocle and bounced upon the table to observe what his prospective customer was viewing.  
"Ah! A bestiary! You are a mighty hunter, no doubt!"

"How much?" Noah asked neutrally.

"Only 2,000 Gil, Kupo!"

"Hm." Noah put the book back on the table, and walked away.

"Wait! Wait, Kupo!"

"Hm?" Noah's face betrayed nothing.

"1,000 Gil, Kupo?"

"That Bestiary is sorely out of date, as well you know. I'll be surprised you find a buyer at all."

"850? You know I'm generous to a fault!" The Moogle smiled broadly as he encouraged Noah toward the offer.

"500, and you throw in the outdated Rozarrian atlas there."

"I was wrong." The Moogle scowled. "You're no hunter. You're a master thief, Kupo!"

"Well, if you think you'll find a better offer." Noah resumed his stride.

"Wait." The Moogle was resigned. "Fine." He started to wrap up the books when Noah stopped him.

"Just a moment… Add these as well, please. I'll be glad to pay what they're marked," Noah reassured with a spark of humor in his eyes. The Moogle in return smiled with delight, adding the two thick books with luxurious binding to the total.

"A gift, Kupo?"

"Yes." Noah smiled softly.

"Aw, here, Kupo. You're my best customer today. I'll throw in a new pencil!"

"_I'm_ your best customer of the day?" The threat of laughter pulsed at lips disciplined to seriousness. His voice was shot with dry irony. "Don't know which of us should be more disappointed."

The Moogle hummed as he counted his Gil, and Noah tucked the package into the satchel slung across his shoulders and made his way toward the two familiar figures.  
As he neared the boy, Faolyn stopped so suddenly Noah almost tripped over him.  
Instinct sought at once for threat, and impulse told him to claim the sword at his side and defend the child in his keep. But Faolyn's eyes held no fear, only curiosity and dismay.

"What good is armor like _that_?" Faolyn stared at the Viera inquisitively.

The look Tarachande shot Noah over the boy's head was a mix of taunting humor and pointed warning.  
Noah squirmed, inwardly groaning. This he had not counted on.

"The Viera are a unique race, not particularly, um, _inhibited_ by, uh, normal convention."  
Noah stumbled uncomfortably to explain and glanced at the old man who was looking back at him with half-closed eyes of exasperation.  
Noah shrugged very slightly, embarrassed. Tarachande rolled his eyes silently and shook his head.

"Is their skin invulnerable?" Faolyn continued his questioning with all seriousness, face twisted skeptically as he continued to study the tall, lithe, scantily clad female.

Noah _desperately_ wished the Viera would move on. If by only will he could have moved her she'd have suddenly disappeared from the region completely. This desire being practically unattainable, Noah would have personally sponsored her to a new wardrobe and complete armor if he had any hope his offer would be less than violently received.

"Um. No…no, I, uh, I think not." Noah's eyes cut toward Tarachande once more. The old man was by now glaring at him, expecting a more definitive word than this.

"Then why wear that stuff at all?" Faolyn scoffed, oblivious to the startled, wide-eyed exchange between his companions.

"Well…oh…" Noah coughed. "Um…"

"I just don't understand." Faolyn's voice was both frustrated and perplexed. "The Dalmascan guardsmen wear complete armor. …Did you not?"  
Faolyn turned to Noah with sober eyes. Noah bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, and felt a flush of embarrassment creeping toward his face.

"Yes. Yes, I did. Head to toe. Absolutely." Noah's tone left no room for doubt.

Tarachande was now silently laughing at the thought of the younger man parading about in a meager costume. The old man covered by pretending a round of hearty coughing, but Noah was not fooled-and was _not_ amused.

"The guard did not seem afraid. And I know you to be brave." Faolyn continued his appraisal.

Noah was disquieted by the boy's high regard, and Tarachande's laughter ceased.

"Foolish, more like." The old man muttered, but the boy seemed not to hear.

"Look there!" Faolyn persisted, pointing toward a young maiden, Dalmascan by the ensign upon her armored bustier.  
Her midriff was bare, and her thighs, save an almost non-existent skirt, were to her armored knees exposed.  
There was also, Noah noted to his chagrin, a respectable amount of cleavage showing as well and nothing but the breeze upon her bare shoulders or neck.

What was it Drace, who had so prized her own distinctive suit of armor, said about just this thing...?Something about whores and sirens…...  
Zecht had found her extraordinarily strong opinion on the issue particularly humorous and had in turn intentionally aggravated her with his judgment of vixens.  
With how violently their sharp tongues had clashed that day, it had made one wonder what use was left for a sword.  
Noah could not suppress the bittersweet memory of his now fallen colleagues.

Still, probably not the thing to relay to Faolyn…  
Noah shot another look toward the old man and received a dour return.  
No, certainly not.

But enough of what _not_ to say. What _to_ say?  
Larsa would never have asked such a thing, even if it had been to Gabranth, it had not, to provide answer for such personal queries.

"Well?" Faolyn stopped and stared up at Noah with piercing, determined eyes.  
He was resolved to see this through.  
Tarachande too was looking to him with heavy expectation, but offered no aid.

Besieged, Noah looked about the area, hoping to find a more appropriately suited warrior maiden to contrast with those Faolyn had pointed out but finding none.  
He breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, and offered the best answer he could find within himself.  
"Some, it seems, think of armor more as accessory than defense. Like a hair comb or a new robe, they put it on for adornment but little else. I'll not deny that armor, weaponry, these can be beautiful."

His mind turned to the intricately detailed dual-blades…  
…The perfect balance…How smoothly they fit to hand…

Tarachande cleared his throat, and Noah returned his attention to Faolyn's watchful eyes.

"Perhaps these look to style and not to safety because they do not understand…"  
He did not add to this, _"war and death." _

Noah's mind was at once filled with visions of broken, torn bodies, scattered like toys cast off from a child's careless hand to be abandoned where they fell, lifeless, still, cold…  
How many were there, unclaimed, unmourned, unburied, left to the lonesome, unforgiving whim of the elements…  
How many homes and loved ones yet hoped for word from one whose last breath had been delivered with an open gasp or between clenched teeth into the ears of the one who claimed their life.  
…How many such words of prayer or cursing, grief or blame, forgiveness or hate, had come to _him _by the flick of a wrist or the thrust of a hand.  
…Of the many voices he recognized only a few, but all, these banished whispers and cries, by day faded only to increase in strength by night.

"Go on." Tarachande's aged voice brought Noah from the barren scene.

"Could be some wish to prove bravery or to tempt fate, but there is a difference between bravery and recklessness. Courage, Faolyn, is not found in taking mindless risks but in accepting risk when it must come."  
Noah's eyes became quietly grim, meeting the boy's with direct solemnity, and his voice drifted to a hushed focus. "The purpose of a weapon, and of armor, should not be taken lightly."  
Faolyn held his gaze as if reading the pages of a book.

"Well-" Tarachande seized the opportunity. "Did the boy show you the weapon _he_ now carries?"

Noah's brow flexed slightly at the revelation, and Faolyn blinked and shifted his eyes to the old man and then back to his guardian uneasily.

"I see not. Show the man, Faolyn." Tarachande ordered brusquely.

All thought of Viera and the perplexities of protective coverage forgotten, Faolyn stopped and searched through his own satchel for the questionable item.  
Noah stood silently, waiting with guarded eyes.

"Here." Faolyn transferred the sheathed blacksmiths knife into Noah's open hands.  
The boy watched as his protector removed the intricate but small weapon, running rough fingers gently over the handle detail, carefully testing the sharpness of the blade, and turning it over in his hands.

Noah's fingers stilled abruptly, and his eyes narrowed. "Where did you get this?"

"Over there…" Faolyn pointed, and Noah followed his direction, staring into the distance with unreadable eyes.

"Given him _against_ my wish, this I assure!" Tarachande spoke roughly, but Noah looked at him blankly, his thoughts far away.

"Can I keep it?" Faolyn asked Noah shyly. Tarachande's brow knit darkly.

"A blade is a treacherous thing." Noah began softly, returning his gaze to the knife.  
Faolyn looked sadly down.  
"I believe you are able to bear this responsibility. Only remember."

Faolyn's eyes returned, with appreciation for the praise, to Noah's face. "I will."

Tarachande growled.  
Noah turned to meet the old man's angry gaze. "I will teach him."

"No. You will not." Tarachande countered mulishly, and Noah frowned.

"Consider! He may have reason-"

"Faolyn. Go look at something over there."  
Tarachande dismissed the boy by pointing toward some booths nearby. Faolyn glanced at Noah, who nodded slightly, and reluctantly moved away.

"What?" Tired, sore, and troubled, Noah's voice was rough.

"You will not defy me in this. I do not wish the boy to learn violence."

"We are agreed then, for neither do I. And yet he must be taught to defend himself! Would it not be best that he learn this skill with hope to never need call upon it, than be found with need unprepared?"

"He would desire to tramp about hunting with _you-_as well you know." Tarachande accused, and Noah winced. "Speaking of which, now seems well enough the time to ask, did you promise the boy a cut of profits from your hunts?"

Noah's hardened eyes met Tarachande's willfully. "Those he helped to reap the spoils from. It is only right."

The old man grumbled. "Note he did not ask _my_ permission to keep the knife. It is _your_ approval he seeks. You should not encourage him to think of this bloody business as adventure and play!"

"Nor _have_ I! Faolyn understands the seriousness well."

"If so, it is because he wishes to protect _you_ from harm. Is it not to _you_ to protect _him_ instead?" The blame was like a stabbing wound. Was there no armor strong enough to protect the heart?

Noah clenched his fist as if he could cut off the pain that tore him.  
He turned away from the old man's assault, and his eyes found Faolyn. The boy on cue turned to meet Noah's eyes as if he could sense his guardian's gaze upon him.

"Never would I willingly place Faolyn in danger." There was strong emotion in Noah's lowered voice, and he turned to Tarachande with burning intensity that made the old man flinch. "Nor would I put him in a _cage-my lord_."

The obstinate old man was set to deliver a barbed respond, but Faolyn was suddenly between them, shoulders hunched defensively, eyes shifting nervously over his shoulder toward the crowd.

"What is it, Faolyn?" Noah was at once alert, his own eyes taking the path of Faolyn's gaze.

At once he saw them. The man, woman, and boy walked together, followed not far behind by two armed guards whose eyes turned discreetly about and whose hands never left the hilts of their swords.  
_Dimas Apolinar… _

"It's okay, Faolyn. I'm here." Noah's voice was hushed; his eyes never left the face of the tall, dark man who approached with his retinue.

The old man looked to Noah, hearing within those few words both reason for caution and for unease. Clearly the Rozarrian was not unknown to their boarder, and Noah's careful words and guarded manner implied the man was no friend...

"Ah. And so we meet again." Dimas smiled graciously and removed one arm from around his wife's silk-clad shoulder to stretch forth his hand to Tarachande.

The old man took it with some reluctance and found the grip solid but friendly.

"And you must be the boy's father. How nice to meet you. Dimas Apolinar. And you are-?" He reached the hand to Noah, and Noah, silent, took it without hesitation.

Tarachande saw a change in the obsidian eyes of Dimas Apolinar, a flash of hostility and anger, as Noah's fist went white-knuckle in the quick exchange. The alteration was not betrayed in his tone or words.

"I fear my son imposed himself upon your family, evening last. He would like to take the opportunity to apologize for making of himself a nuisance. Wayrah."  
He spoke his son's name as an order and, with the arm that was about the boy's shoulders, pushed him forward to stand before the three, like a prisoner to plead his case.

The boy's midnight blue eyes looked up into Noah's shadowed face.  
"I am very sorry, sir." And then he turned to the old man and repeated the same.

Tarachande bristled, his eyes on the father. "Already I have assured twas no trouble. There is no need for these continuous apologies."

The boy shot a look back toward his father, whose face was hardened, and looked away.

The old man continued as Noah stood like stone, watching, beside Faolyn. "Will you not introduce us to the lovely lady at your side?"

The face of the woman lightened a shade at the old man's compliment, but her husband's eyes flashed dangerously. "Of course. My wife, Gisela Apolinar." He stepped back and swept his arm toward his wife. "Greet the men, Gisela."

She stepped forward, slight but soft, with a timid smile and doe-like brown eyes that rested too far into their sockets. She reached out a hand that Noah gently clasped and then released from his own.  
Her face flushed a soft rose.  
Tarachande took this same delicate hand and lifted it to his lips. The blush that had already crept to her cheeks became scarlet at his caress, and her eyes lowered, covered beneath a veil of soft brown lashes.

Dimas laughed, but there was harshness in the report, and he called his wife back to him.  
"Come now, Gisela, before you are stolen before my eyes. Clearly this man has an eye for beauty."

Noah observed that the woman's face did not flush with excitement at her own husband's praise. And yet she returned to the cover of his arm about her shoulders without hesitation.  
His stomach tightened.

"Who are you today?" Faolyn suddenly asked the other boy, his eyes serious and his voice quiet.

The boy looked to Faolyn, his eyes bleak though he smiled faintly. "Today I am invisible."

"Wayrah! Come!"

Noah saw the apprehension in the boy's eyes, and the anger that had wakened began to stir.

"Yes, sir." The boy at once yielded to his father's command, taking his place opposite his mother at his father's side.  
With a wave of farewell from Dimas Apolinar, the three returned to their guards and continued along the path.

"You know that man." Tarachande turned to Noah as soon as the group was beyond range of hearing.

"He is a Rozarrian General. …Why is he here…?"

The question, the old man knew, was not for him. "Your opinion of him is not high."

It was a rhetorical question, but Noah answered shortly. "No." Noah's mood turned dark as he stared silently after the the vanishing figures, but finally he continued. "Dimas Apolinar is counted a hero by many Rozarrians. He has led many campaigns to victory-of sorts. But there is a veil of controversy shrouding his name. It is whispered his methods are bloody, costly, and cruel-and not for the enemy alone. At one time, Al-Cid Margrace proposed an internal investigation, but the military command vehemently opposed. And of course it is difficult to attempt prosecution of a national hero when any who would dare speak disappear."

Noah found no reason to tell the old man that the truth of these whispers was a well-protected secret of Rozarrian state, hidden even from their own citizens.  
The scandalous and dishonorable behavior of their most heavily decorated General was never to be openly acknowledged.  
There was no proposal for official investigation in the archives, and Al-Cid Margrace would not betray the truth if Gabranth asked.

Tarachande's wrinkled brow furrowed deeply. "And what _do_ you think he's doing here? _Family _retreat, perhaps?" Between the dry tone and the scoffing bark, a slip of something bitter and acidic stirred within the old man's words.

Noah just shook his head and ground his teeth, eyes narrowed in thought. When he addressed the old man it was to give charge. "Tarachande. Alert the Dalmascan Captain to keep a sharp eye."

The old man, so contentious only moments before, now found it easy to comply. It seemed just as natural when he, so intent upon goading the younger man about the stain of his violent influence upon the young one, turned to the boy between them and ordered him with all firmness of conviction to stay with Noah at all times.

Faolyn nodded, his thoughts on other things…  
…_the boy's father… … your family… …invisible…  
_He looked up at his guardian's obscured face and moved further into the shadow of Noah's side.

Noah stood like a dark sentinel, motionless and with expression fixed, his mind conjuring images of cold deceits and weaving tales of violent men with violent means behind the eyes' invisible shields.

"Where did you get the knife, Faolyn?" Noah's brooding voice spoke softly. "…Show me." He protectively placed a comforting arm around Faolyn's shoulder, and they took to the path.

* * *

"What did the boy say to you?" Dimas Apolinar's words slashed the air.

"Nothing, sir." The hand on his shoulder tightened fiercely, and the boy nearly cried out in pain. Only the knowledge that at his tears his father's displeasure would increase stopped him.

"Lie to me and you will regret." The cold warning sent a chill through the boy's heart. His mother was silent.

"He asked who I was."

Dimas stopped in the shade of a tree, dropping his arm from his wife's shoulders. She embraced herself, as if for warmth, and turned-though she made no move to part ways.  
The guards kept their place close by.  
Dimas placed both hands upon the shoulders of the child before him and gripped hard, staring mercilessly into the agonized but silent face of the young boy. "And what did you tell him?"

"I-I told him I was invisible. It was-it was just…just a joke." Wayrah swallowed hard.

"Be thankful, child, that we are in public. You do not speak a word that I do not give you. Understand?"

Through the pain, the boy attempted to nod, and the hands clamped down more severely.  
The boy could not withhold a gasp, and the woman pulled more tightly into her own arms.

"Yes-Sir." The stern voice directed unemotionally, and the boy's whitened lips repeated mechanically.

The large hands released their grip, and Wayrah shuddered as he pulled in a ragged breath.  
"Mind you don't forget."  
Dimas reached for his wife's arm, gathered his family once more, and went on.

* * *

Quiet and morose, she had appeared, just when he had thought she would not return.  
The events of earlier were to be forgotten, Kasan was thus determined.  
Dwen had a heart that beat like his, and who knew her needs. It was becoming more apparent by the moment _he_ did not.

Truly it struck him how little he did know of this young woman who had been his constant companion for these short weeks and months.  
She had come soon after his return from war, when he'd not even yet truly taken up his work again.  
Doggedly she'd sold him on his need of an assistant, though what had clenched it was his sympathy for her need of employment.  
Having her beside him had spurred him to reengage in his own life and to allow himself the enjoyment of his skill again-something he might have left off for good if she had not come. He was not ungrateful.  
If she had family he was unaware. He'd been afraid to ask if they were lost in the fighting, and she'd never offered information.  
Similarly, he did not speak to her about his war experiences or his family conflicts, though she'd always been very sensitive to the atmosphere of all.  
Between them was something less than tangible but all the more real.  
It was an understanding of spirits.  
He did not know her, and yet he knew her well.  
And more than anything he did not wish to hurt her.  
But he could not let himself be made careless, for both their sakes.  
She deserved more…he needed more.

"You know, when we get back-"

Dwen interrupted, bracing her hands on the other side of the table the now divided them.

"Kasan, you don't ever need to go back!"

"…Dwen…" Kasan laughed lightly, privately unhappy that she was yet determined to pursue this road. "Of course I'll go back." Gently his words grounded her dreams of flight. "That's where my home is, my business, my family."

"Your _step_-mother." Dwen's eyes hardened to stone, and her voice held an acutely bitter tone.

"…Yes. My step-mother." Kasan sighed for both their sakes, and gave a twisted grin."But she is my family, Dwen, by whatever title." His face was shadowed, the contentment of earlier altogether gone.

"Why? Tell me why! Do you enjoy pain?" Her words were harshly spoken, slivers of sharp emotion.

Kasan expressed some irony. "No, not particularly, now that you mention it."  
He looked at Dwen with a mix of curiosity, sadness, and exasperation. "What would you have me do, Dwen? Just walk away? Leave behind my home, my life, without a thought?"

"Your home should be with those who care for you. And your skill would grant you success wherever you wished to go. This should be your life!"  
She waved her hands dramatically, and he looked about skeptically.

"I should become a nomad? A vagabond? …This trip is becoming more and more expensive by the moment, Dwen." He gave his companion a dubious grin.

"I'm talking about _freedom_, Kasan! Don't you want to be free?" Suddenly she was pleading with him, her violet eyes shining not with sun but with dew.

Kasan boosted himself onto the table and slid to her side. He took her face between his hands and sighed.  
"Dwen, I know there is something to what you say. And part of me, a very real part of me, is tempted… But I am not bound like a slave. It's my choice to stay."

Dwen clenched her teeth against her emotions and shook her head in disbelief.  
"I don't understand."

"…I know." Kasan smoothed her soft gleaming-white curls and looked pensively into her eyes. She really was so beautiful…"Maybe someday it will be different, but, for now, this is something I just have to do."

"Could you not think enough of _me _to do otherwise?" Her voice was wistful, and a sheen of tears came to his eyes.

He sighed tiredly and traced her lips tenderly with his fingertips, but then he abruptly pulled back his hand and turned away, closing his eyes tight against the irrational longing that called to him.

"Kasan, if you will not save yourself, I _cannot_." Her words were flat and hard.

Kasan turned back to her, sadness on his features. Dwen looked up into his face.  
There was something in her eyes he'd not seen before, something strange and unsettling.  
Her eyes were vivid, and her lips were tense-and abruptly on his.

Her long fingers intertwined around the back of his neck, bringing him to her, her mouth fierce and demanding on his lips. He grasped her hands with the intent to ease her away-and found he could not. Her strength surprised him more than the kiss. He gasped for breath he couldn't claim and struggled absurdly against her. His mind reeled from the startling realization that _he_, a veteran of the Imperial Archadian Army, trained and war-tested in deadly hand to hand combat, well-muscled and made stronger than most by long hours perfecting his more civilized trade, had no control over this slender girl who stood near a foot less than he.  
Add to this that his will seemed to scatter, abandoning his own best intentions.  
He was overcome by her burning spirit.

"Woo-Hoo! Pretty lady has found her treasure, I think!" A Seeq's hearty laugh did what Kasan could not, as Dwen dropped her hands.  
Kasan instinctively distanced himself, though his eyes were locked on hers in shock.

The Seeq's meaty fist slapping Kasan's back broke him from his stupor, and he closed his open jaw, tasting his own blood on his stinging lips.

Kasan felt a pain in his heart and a surreal cloud over his head.  
There was no mistaking the burning, freezing emotion in her eyes as she glanced back at him.

As the Seeq laughed, and the amused crowd of onlookers grew, Dwen stared bitterly at Kasan and then withdrew, passing through the people unhindered.

It was then the sky to the west erupted in sparkling flame, and the crowd gasped, nervous and wondering.  
Across the sands and hills and the scattered green from hidden oasis, they looked to one another, drew close together, and gazed unsettled upon the bright display.  
So fresh from the horrors of war and the fear of bombs and the memory of flames, you could see the uncertainty, you could smell the fright, as with one mind they questioned…was this an act of celebration or aggression?

Noah wondered the same.

His eyes quickly captured images of the faces in the crowd. The pale girl with soft, white curls, slipping grimly away like a wisp in the throng.  
The jumbled mass of paupers, aristocrats, and thieves moving as one, drawn even through their fear toward the climbing, falling, expanding, winding light.  
Only a few remained stationary, or seemed to move on unaffected toward some other goal. The Rozarrian guards he'd last seen trailing behind Dimas Apolinar. The dark haired boy who stood alone, staring fearfully toward the lights. And…

For a moment his mind refused to accept, and then, as pieces began to slide together, every sense screamed one word...

…_No!_


	17. The Eternal Moment

In that one surreal moment, Noah grasped Faolyn's shoulder and held him tight, seeing in his blued lips and luminescent eyes a terror of another kind, feeling the change in the air also in the strange spark of sensation from the boy's skin.

"Faolyn, go to the old man! Now, Faolyn!" The boy did not respond, his eyes changing to a soft glow as his lips trembled. Noah shook him as if to awaken him from a trance. "I _will_ find you!" Noah's words more than his touch brought focus back to Faolyn's eyes. "You have my word, Faolyn! Now, go!"  
He threw a hand in the direction of the path to where they could see Tarachande, worry etched in every line of his worn face, hurrying to make his way on tired legs.  
For a brief moment Faolyn stared at his guardian, stricken, but then he whirled and ran with a wild swiftness akin to flight toward the old man.

Tarachande opened his arms in preparation to snatch the young one from his careening escape, and the old man's eyes held Noah's for a flickering moment, reading there the breaking of a great storm.  
_Don't be a fool, young man. If you die now…__  
_The old man took in every detail on the frightened young face that rushed toward him.  
…_You will destroy him. And I will never forgive you._

Faolyn's foot caught on a rock and he sprawled into the dirt and stone at Tarachande's feet. The old man grasped his tunic and pulled him none too gently up, then wrapped his cloak around Faolyn's shoulders and shepherded him from the scene.

For the moment content that Faolyn was seen to, long-nurtured fighting mechanisms took hold.  
Noah dropped his head a degree, looking up from under tense lids, like an animal about to lunge.  
Somehow the sword had come to his right hand, and the dagger to the other. His shoulders hunched as he gathered strength; the muscles of his thighs flexed.

"Ranel!" The word carried over the noise like a command. "Defend!"

Bright sparking wisps and flowering showers rose and fell and burst above the heads of the onlookers, fascinating and terrifying the crowd. The display turned the eye of almost every being. _Almost._

Kasan struggled to recover his breath, on the brink of calling out to Dwen to stay, attempting to convince his senses that the current exhibition was nothing to fear.  
And then the familiar voice, with recognized inflection and certain pitch, rang out strongly over the murmurs and gasps and explosive hiss.

Kasan was instantly in motion. He dove beneath the table, pulling it down with him to become his shield. Two bolts splintered the thick wood a breath later. They embedded into the slab, sending a spray of splinters into the air.

His hand found a sword that had fallen with the table, and self-preservation lifted his hand to deflect the slashing blade that fell toward him as heavy boots imprinted the earth inches from his head. Coming to his feet, he whirled, ducking beneath yet another vicious strike, and his blade slid across the ribs of his enemy, staining the steel crimson.

The enraged cry of his attacker signaled that the wound was painful and yet not lethal, and the intensity of the strikes increased.

"Quit playing, fool! He's only an artist!" The words were spat out as if they were venomous from a second foe, rushing in to aid the first.

The dancing shimmers across the sky brightened and rose, bursting into color and taking wing.  
The crowd had moved away, awed and overcome by the frightful beauty, and none took notice or heard the sounds of violence so close by.

Kasan defended against another blow, backing, reaching blindly for some shield or second weapon for aid. His legs hit the makeshift forge, and he could see the triumph in the aggressor's face and stance.  
The voice that reached his ears mocked his defeat.  
"And now you see, for struggle there is no use. Come quietly. Greet your death."

* * *

As the bolts split the wood like a great wound, Noah spun in the direction from which the shots had come, his cloak billowing behind him as he ran. He ran low to the earth, cutting a jagged pattern through the landscape. Bolts kicked up clay and slivers of stone at his feet.

As he narrowed the gap between himself and his prey, the shots ceased and a figure dropped hastily from the perch of a tree, racing aside toward a great stone for cover.

Noah charged after, blades readied, each long and powerful stride carrying him closer.

The assailant rounded the stone and disappeared from view. Noah crouched lower to the earth, boots digging for purchase in the mix of dirt and stone. His chase did not cease until the roaring of an engine slowed his pace and brought caution to his pursuit.

A black hoverbike, impressive in design and strong in power, flew from behind the stone, increasing its incline as it prepared to take to the sky. Instinctively Noah threw the dagger and lunged, joining himself to the suddenly unstable craft. "Bring it down-now!"  
The command was unnecessary as the dagger had found its mark within the ornate spokes of the wheels, and the craft came to a sudden and immediate halt. Overbalanced and unable to climb, the hover sputtered, lurched, and fell.

Noah released his grip on the iron seat back and rolled as he met the ground, coming at once to his feet. The bike crashed in a fiery mass of mangled metal, the end of someone's highly fashioned handiwork, and the driver sprawled motionless where he'd been thrown.

Noah approached guardedly, his sword directed toward the lifeless body. The tell-tale sound of the cocking of a pistol stopped him as the driver gingerly moved, lifting himself carefully from the ground and the wreckage of his freedom, weapon aimed toward the chest of his prison.

"So nice that you should join me, Judge Magister."

* * *

Wayrah turned stunned eyes from the fiery display, scanning the faces of the crowd, incredulous as he watched the wisdom that was their instinctive fear die away and be replaced by excitement and merriment. How was it they did not see?

His senses drove him to abandon this place, and his feet uprooted from their planted space. A heavy hand stopped his retreat, and he looked up into the admonishing eyes of Dimas Apolinar's second in command.  
"Your orders are to stay with us, young master."

Wayrah swallowed hard.

The guard released his arm, something distantly related to sympathy in his eyes before they hardened to stone once more. "You will play the part assigned you; do not think to stray and imagine the General will not know of it."

"Yes, sir." Wayrah dropped his eyes and joined the guard in silence.

Faintly, beneath the sound of the cheering crowd and the music now being played along with the dancing exhibit, Wayrah could hear the ominous sounds of violence. The warrior at his side was also very aware, his eyes moving cautiously over the crowd and then turning inconspicuously to glimpse back over his shoulder.

Wayrah saw the boy, Faolyn, racing down the path, tripping, regaining his footing, and disappearing in the company of the elderly man. A longing note sounded in Wayrah's chest, but he clenched his fists against the envy that rose there. He turned his eyes back along the path the other boy had followed and saw the tent collapse as others of his father's guards fought with the artist whose wares he had admired.

Wayrah's eyes shot up toward the soldier's. The man gave him a cold, warning glance.  
"You will remain silent, young master, if you are wise." And then the veteran warrior sighed in frustration. "Apparently I must see to a situation. Do not leave this location…or deceive yourself into thinking that by your disobedience you suffer alone."

Wayrah bit his lip and nodded. "I understand."

"I hope so." The man swiftly moved toward the artist's location, and Wayrah's heart pounded like a drum against his chest, his fists clenched even more tightly.

As sparks and murmurs and violent sword clashes combined in his hearing, Wayrah closed his eyes…

…_Who are you today?_

And without lifting a foot, he had slipped away.

* * *

Kasan's eyes never left the over-confident face of his assailant as his exposed fingers hovered over the lingering coals of the forge. He could feel the heat, and his senses demanded he abandon his intent at once. He remained calm. He had endured worse.

The aggressor's sword arm pulled back, and Kasan's hand plunged deep and then swept upward, throwing ash and cinder into the man's bare face.

"_Eeaaauh!"_ With a shrill, injured exclamation, the man dropped his weapon and threw his hands to his eyes.  
At any other time, Kasan would have sympathized. Not just now.

The man's partner reacted at once. He leapt toward Kasan with a curse meant more for his ally than his enemy, and Kasan rolled to the side to avoid the severe blow. Kasan felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, realized his left arm was limp and useless, and with dread knew he had not entirely succeeded in avoiding the stroke. Still he managed to grasp the man's wrist with his good hand and send him flying over his shoulder.

The man crashed into the tent, groaning as it collapsed and hid him within its folds.

Kasan sank to his knees and fought his way back through the fog to his feet, thinking to make his getaway amid the chaos.

And then a third warrior came into view. By his demeanor and stance it was clear he was the veteran of the group, and his eyes showed no more mercy for his allies than his enemy.

"Get up and compose yourselves, or others will be given your place." The deadly inference did its work.

"Worry not. I can manage." With singed brows and hair and dots of pulsing red upon his face, the first antagonist returned, glowering and fierce. The second crawled groggily from beneath the heavy material and stumbled to join in

"Good to hear. Then have done with it!" The seasoned warrior signaled his companions on.

A blistered face twisted into a painful jeer. "It will be my great pleasure."

* * *

Tarachande hurried Faolyn toward the cart upon which they had made their journey. "Here now, where is that blasted beast?" The Chocobo, as usual, was nowhere to be seen, and his master was not present to draw him. But the young one…

"Call him!" The old man prompted the unresponsive child at his side, and Faolyn's eyes turned to his face blankly.

"I'm not leaving." His words were toneless. His eyes drifted back alone the path from which he'd come.

The old man heard the mingled sounds in the air, caught the hint of ash in the breeze, saw the flashes of dancing light on the horizon, the sudden burst of flame upon the hill, and shuddered. "What is it he said to you?"

Faolyn blinked slowly.

"Answer me!" Tarachande cupped the boy's face in his weathered hand and turned it firmly toward him. _"What-did-he-say?"_

"He said…he said he will find me." Faolyn's eyes settled on his mentor's, awakened somehow by the reminder.

"Good, good. Believe him." The old man grasped the boy's hand, determined that if they could not depend upon the Chocobo to deliver them from this scene they would make their own way. Tarachande jerked back at once, his palm covered with a scarlet stain.

The boy made no sound as the old man took his hand once more with a heart made to beat erratically by startled concern. "Look here, what you have done to yourself." The old man's gruffness concealed his concern. The skin on the palm of Faolyn's hand was peeled back, exposing flesh torn by the fall. "Come now, child, let us return to the campsite. I'll have this cleaned up in no time. Come, come…" The old man prodded in as gentle a manner as could be had by him, "Our friend will settle his business and return to you soon enough. Worry not, all will be well."

As they stopped beside the path behind the buildings of the established town, Faolyn's eyes were on the horizon, a peculiar, knowing fear lit within his softly glowing orbs.

"Here now, Faolyn. Wait. This should suffice for the moment. Let me see."

Faolyn did not seem to hear the old man's words, and Tarachande reached and took his hand with no resistance.

"We need to cleanse first the wound, and then I'll apply a bit of salve and…" The old man stopped, stroking the boy's hand absentmindedly, suddenly taken back and speechless. The grated skin and flesh beneath his careful fingertips was changed. The young palm was covered by a bruise-like stain that seemed to increase in tone and then fade, but it was no longer torn. The flesh was newly knit as if by thread of blue.

"My boy…" The old man gasped.

An explosive design burst upon the skyline, and Faolyn shuddered. Tarachande's hand, upon the boy's, was stung by a spark and came instinctively away.

"We must leave." Faolyn's eyes were on Tarachande's face intently, and the old man frowned anxiously. How he wished for that troublesome intruder to return…  
"We must leave now!" Faolyn gripped the old man's arm, and Tarachande flinched at the strength of the boy's hand.

"Yes, yes. So we shall. Come." The old man glanced worriedly about, put his arm about the boy's shoulder, more for his own support than to comfort the lad, and continued along the way.

* * *

"Surely it cannot be... Did you think I did not know you would follow, illustrious Judge Magister ?" The calm, unruffled voice held a touch of mocking.

"Surrender. Perhaps you'll live to escape once more." Noah made no attempt to mask his voice or to feign ignorance of the identity attributed to him.

"I fear 'tis you should surrender-and beg for mercy," the other man returned with purpose.

"Arrogant as always." Noah's tone was apathetic and droll; his opponent bristled a touch at the lack of respect shown him. Still he remained discordantly cool.

"You dangle freedom for the sake of the snare and did not sense your plans were seen?"

Noah carefully kept his face unchanged as his eyes settled lazily upon the other man's face. Internally his mind raced to process the possible meanings of the query.

"You should not take lightly your enemies, my friend. Others too know how to play this game." Lightly delivered was the rebuke, but granite would seem soft beside those eyes.

"I take seriously those who need it." Noah matched his opponent in unflappable cunning.

"And yet you are here." The man's voice twisted, became hard and direct, stalking, prodding, moving in to strike those areas left exposed. "The mighty warrior lured to the cage by a bit of bloody bait at the end of a frayed string. A tragedy, this. A tragedy indeed."  
The man brushed dirt from his posh gloves as he lifted an eyebrow in ridicule, taking in Noah's scruffy face and blackened hair-the hood of the cloak having been removed, no longer necessary in this particular act and scene.

Noah's voice grew dangerously quiet. "Were I in your place, I'd not be so quick to show my hand."

The man laughed softly, and against his own will Noah felt panic rising in his blood. What was it he did not know?

"Ah, Judge Magister… I see you think that I am become foolish. You think indeed that I have been made hasty. And yet …" The power that exuded from the figure and the sharpness of the eyes contrasted with the unassuming stature and impression of soft privilege in the gracious manners. "Tell me, where is your charge, Your Honor? Where is the young Emperor in your so-solemn keep? While _you_ are _here_, playing childish games of hide and seek…where, _pray tell_, is young Larsa?"

* * *

A greater, blinding pain hit Kasan as he was tossed like a rag doll upon the forge. He stifled the cry that fought to escape his lips and tamed it to a low guttural groan as his back was seared by the coals.  
As he writhed helplessly, battered by the jarring fall upon the smoldering bricks, bleeding from the debilitating sword wound, and feeling the cinders eating through his smock into his skin, in flashes of pain he saw as if the expanse of time had merged to one single eternal moment.

They were with him once more, the faceless torturers with their implements of coercion meant to encourage him to share what he did not know, hate-filled voices barking questions he could not understand. His lips dry, his body exhausted and in unbearable suffering. The overwhelming loneliness, the shameful helplessness, the utter confusion.

Kasan could not see the third man grab the first around the throat, holding him in an unyielding grip, but he heard the words that were growled into the singed face. "He is to be taken _alive._ _You_ need not be so fortunate."

"Stop playing! If there's trouble with the Judge Magister…!" This from the second foe.

…The Judge Magister…

"Gabranth…" Kasan's lips barely moved, and the word slipped faintly from them to be swallowed by the sea of sound that filled the air.

_He could still hear the frantic cries…  
Hurry! A Judge Magister! He's made our location! We've been found! No! No!  
…A single, vicious sword stroke sent him falling into a bottomless pool of darkness, where he was met by a startling flash of sharpest pain, just before the end of suffering…  
"Gabranth…"_

"If there's trouble with the Judge Magister, the General will deal with it." The third again shut down his younger, less experienced companions.

Kasan felt his arms being grabbed roughly, his body forcibly moved when he could not tell his legs to stand. His shoulder pulsed with a throbbing ache; his back screamed with every move he made. The sounds outside his darkness were muted and strange…  
He was lifted and tossed, falling with a gasp against an unforgiving metal frame.

"Go! Go!" The voice barked orders Kasan could no longer comprehend to forms he could not see.

The earth about him trembled and whirled. His consciousness betrayed him, pulling him away, and he drifted. Yet somewhere in visions he chanced to see the angel stoop to be near him, soft white curls falling toward eyes filled with first sorrow and then with wild grief and rage…  
From paled lips came a bitter cry, and from the eyes and fingertips there flared a light, chasing vague forms away in terror…  
But as quickly followed a whirl of cinder and flame, and the angel fell, bound, subdued, and tamed. There grew a phantom from the shadows, stronger by far and wilder the more, breathing a living hate.

His heart begged for comfort and found none until the visions took what was left of his strength…and were no more.

* * *

Did the blazing surge of fear that overwhelmed Noah's heart show as brightly in his eyes? He hoped not, and yet for a fraction of time he was not able to contain the emotion that swept over him, and his opponent's gently upturned lips told the story.

The man twisted his hand to direct the pistol at Gabranth's ill armored chest. Without acknowledging this move, the man continued, his eyes lit with lust for his vision.  
"One more worthy will take his place. One whose destiny it is to embody the hopes and dreams of all sons of Ivalice. But do not be alarmed, my dear Gabranth, the boy Larsa will not suffer over much in his death. I am a man of honor."

Noah's moved only slightly, but was met with immediate warning.  
"Do not hasten your demise, Judge Magister. It will come soon enough, though I will not promise as gentle an end for one such as you. …And then the Empire is ours, for who will hinder our desires once you are defeated?"

Noah's voice, Gabranth's voice, was low, strangely soft, and every breath lashed with a cutting edge. "Prison walls have caused you to forget reason, Meret. Come. Bring your hate, and remember the stroke of my blade."

Meret clenched his fist and fired the pistol with a spurt of flame.  
Noah threw himself into the assault as if never his body had known pain, twisting, sweeping, falling away from the deadly projectiles, unaware in his anger of the blood flowing from a path carved viciously into his side.

Meret Denali's eyes grew large, as suddenly he realized his peril, and his hand shook as he aimed his weapon at the charging enemy. He fired. And fell.

As the fluid sword stroke arched and drew a trail through the air, Noah's body vaulted from the ground, extended and following the path of the blade. And so, the last, futile shots missed their mark as Noah mark was found.

The last moment of recognition, the last half-second of perception, when the mind knows that the body is dead and the eyes by instinct seek out the face of the one who understands like no other can...  
Meret's gaze turned in shock to the turbulent eyes of his killer, lips open and gasping through a trickle of crimson. Noah's fear for Larsa eased and his anger dulled to something akin distantly to grief as he held the man's eyes until the life inside them faded. His ears alone heard as Meret breathed with his last the name of the one who had stolen his dreams and ended his life, only to share this last sacred moment of time. _"…not over…Gabranth…"_

* * *

Dimas Apolinar lowered the spyglass, cursed, and ruthlessly slammed his armored fist against the unsuspecting, undeserving face of the young guard beside him. The woeful recipient of his misplaced rage fell into an unconscious heap at his commander's feet, and the General stepped over his inert body without acknowledgement. He did not waste a glance on the one who stepped from the shadow to fill the hazardous place at his side.

"I've had enough of lingering here, playing games."

"Your orders, Sir?"

"Summon my _wife_. And get the boy. It's time they contributed something worthwhile."

"Yes sir."

"Wh-what am I to do?" Wayrah stumbled forward from the release of his escort and stood before his father on trembling legs.

Dimas looked down into his dark blue eyes ominously and stroked a finger along the boy's cheek, smiling as the lad shuddered beneath his touch. "What you do best, boy… Lie."

* * *

"_Interesting_ that you are nowhere to be found when there is a _need_ for your services, and of a sudden now here you are when the need is past." Noah, pulse yet racing from the conflict, now fully aware of his wound, and stained by blood taken and lost, glared cynically into the serious eyes of the young Dalmascan Captain.  
He scoffed as the soldier at the Captain's side stepped forward to defend their company's honor. "Call your hound back, Captain." Noah's cool eyes met the guard's.  
It would rattle the young soldier, proud and strong as he was, to be referred to with such contempt. Personal experience had taught him this truth.  
Noah's voice lowered in threat as he continued. "-so he does not hurt himself. Or perhaps you might put him to better use."

The guard lunged, but the young Captain's hand snatched him back. "Wait, Wulf."

"Wulf." Noah echoed the name neutrally, and the young guard growled. The Captain put a hand briefly on the guard's shoulder, and the young man frowned and turned his head as the young Captain's dark eyes carefully scanned Noah's face.

Noah felt the Captain's probing eyes; beneath his casual façade, Noah's mind raced as he felt clearly what was being seen.

"Captain," Noah ignored the rest and addressed him so softly that the others glanced between themselves, unsure of how to interpret the exchange. "You are wrong. And there is no time to waste on your error. " The guards shifted, hands to their sword hilts, glowering in confused anger at the imposing, bloody man before them. "Look at the sky. Do you not feel the dire peril in the air you breathe? Look up the path, over the hill there, and you will see the evidence you need of the destruction this man and his allies have wrought upon-"

"I have the evidence I need-there at your feet. A citizen of Dalmasca dead, by _your_ sword. And there are witnesses that attest _you _destroyed the encampment and hunted this man to his death to interrupt _his_ intent to put an end to _your_ violence. What more do I need?" The young Captain's straightforward manner and grim expression matched well the words he spoke, and Noah asked the question and waited with dread for the answer.

"What witnesses?"

The young guard moved from his Captain's side with a smirk and triumph glittering in his eyes. He lifted his hand and waved his open palm toward the crowd of people in the distance. At first Noah did not recognize the aim, and then, at the edge of the crowd, the boy turned his head and met Noah's eyes despondently. His mother fearfully reached out as he paused and took his hand, urging him along as he lingered and then reluctantly obliged. Together they vanished into the throng.

The futility and pain in the boy's face was equaled by that which Noah felt. He shook his head in frustration, unnaturally-made black locks brushing his cheek, and returned his attention to Dalmasca's young Captain. "A coward, hiding behind an innocent woman and a child." His voice was harsh with emotion.

"Indeed." Wulf scoffed and chuckled sharply, his eyes mockingly on the accused. The young Captain frowned to himself at his companion's words but was silent, his eyes still searching the face of the intimidating figure before him.

"Dimas Apolinar-"

"Is here as the Kingdom's guest-on a mission of diplomacy." The young Captain revealed.

Noah's eyebrows lifted, and he could not withhold a sharp, abbreviated laugh at the absurdity.  
"Dimas Apolinar, General of the Rozarrian Empire, a diplomatic envoy?"  
That the Captain had no faith in his word, he understood, whomever the young knight believed him to be. And yet there was a desperation growing within that _someone_ should listen as Noah saw opportunity crumbling and the fate of others slipping beyond his reach.

"Captain! See for yourself! Search the encampment for Kasan Ranel, citizen of Archadia. He is here as an artisan of these festivities and-"

"We know who he is." The guard at the Captain's side once again interrupted, smugly running his fingers along the edge of his ornate blade. Noah recognized the design and looked to the guard with a hint of curiosity that quickly turned to smoldering anger.

"How much did you pay for that?"

"I got a good deal."

"I'm sure you did." The implication layered in Noah's tone brought the ire out in the young guard once again. The sword was pointed in an instant toward Noah, whose lips lifted grimly to one side.

"Your sword for mine!" The young guard defiantly challenged.

"So eager for your end. But perhaps you should ask of your friends, if they wish to join you." Noah's growling rebuke caused a stir in the small cluster of young soldiers, and three other sets of hands reached for their swords as Wulf made no appearance of weakening. As Noah awaited the decision, Gabranth was seeing the oncoming battle in his head. Who would make the first move, the weaknesses of his opponents, how many strides between…

"Enough, Wulf! Stand down!" The Captain's voice raised for the first time, his brow lowered in anger, and his companion lowered his eyes and his sword. The others followed suit.

"Sorry, Captain." The voice of the second was muted, but a secretive smile played at the rebuked guard's lips.

Above the trees in the distance an airship lifted into the sky and with it panic in Noah's chest.  
"While your focus is turned, the true enemy steals away. Your beloved kingdom will suffer for it."

"Wulf," The Captain continued to stare at the man before him as he spoke. "Take Drystan and investigate the scene. Keep a cool head. Come back alive."

"Yes, Captain." Wulf's smile stretched, and the humor reached his eyes. He dipped his head toward the officer, motioning for another solider to accompany him, and the two were quickly away.

"You will relinquish your sword and come with me." The Captain stated to Noah softly.

"And why would I do that?" Already Noah knew the answer, but some questions demand to be asked.

"Because if _I_ have those who will pay for _my_ misdeeds, certainly the same can be said all the more-" The Captain dropped his voice to a grave, hushed breath, "for a slayer of kings."


	18. Behind Closed Doors

Basch had ducked through the door and taken two steps when suddenly he broke stride, a booted foot skidding across the wood floor of the restaurant.  
_…Gabby?  
_Noah_…his Noah..._had allowed this lady to call him _Gabby?_

Despite the darkness of tragedy and destruction that seemed to press about them Basch could not withhold the faintest glimpse of a smile. He kept his head turned so that she did not see it.

"Go on up, and I'll fetch some tea. " Ila addressed him naturally, turning the sign on her door to _Closed_, pulling down the shades as this was no new thing to do.

Suddenly Basch was wary and a bit personally unsettled…  
What was the meaning of this…  
_Go on up, _she said… Should he wonder what she had in mind for…_Gabby_?  
He felt his ears begin to burn.

Ila stood watching him through deep, dark eyes. When he turned toward her, her lips lifted at one corner and her brow with them. With one hand she directed him up the stairs to the table he'd been given on his last visit.

"Oh yes. Of course. Thank you." Relieved, and slightly embarrassed he began to climb the stairs, and then hesitated. "Is it not nearing time for serving the evening meal?"

She laughed slightly, weight shifted to one hip upon which she placed a hand. "If you are hungry you could just ask."

Basch flushed. "No. Thank you-no. I meant, rather, that I would not wish you to lose profit on my account."

Her eyes lost their dancing mirth, a touch of sadness crossing her face. "It was never considered a problem before…"

They stood looking at one another wordlessly for a long moment, and then Ila turned silently, leaving him there.

Basch watched her with a heavy heart that he could not fully himself understand.

He was sitting at the table when she came to deliver the mug and fill it with steaming liquid.  
Still she was silent, and remained so as she left him to his work.

He spread the receipts before him, and took the notebook and letters and journal and placed them at different angles upon the table.

Lost in the numbers, he only abstractly smelled the delicious fragrances wafting in the air for upwards of an hour. But finally he lifted his eyes from the pages to look up at the young woman who carried a tray toward him.

Her intriguing bronze-threaded waves were tamed and pulled back at the nape of her slender neck. It made her dark brown eyes even darker and all the larger in her face.  
"Do you wish me to leave this aside?" She asked quietly. He could not pretend to be ignorant of the subdued quality in her voice.

"Thank you, it smells delicious, but I fear I can only partake if you will join me, my lady."

Her eyes shifted slightly, as if she was unsure of him, but her lips softened to a hint of smile.  
"If you wish it so."

"I do." Truly did he not have some responsibility to those with whom his brother might have found a connection? ...Within reason of course…  
By his lack of familiarity he had seeming wounded the lady. This recompense was only right…

Ila nodded slightly, and lay out the dishes upon a nearby table. "We need then a second setting. I'll be only a moment."

"My lady." Basch nodded in return, his, Gabranth's voice, _Noah's_ voice, soft as velvet.

She threw a smile over her shoulder as she left him with a lightened pace.  
For a moment Basch's heart warmed, as if by the voice of another that came from his lips and by this woman's attachment to the one she saw in his face, Noah was again with him.

And yet Basch was troubled and somewhat shamed.  
How fully could he play this part, not knowing his brother's role in this scene?  
Might he hurt this lady more by his pretense?  
Was it right to use loyalties to another to advance his own cause?  
Still, was this not the task he had taken? Was this farce not his duty?  
How could he know what Noah would have wished? Was there any more use for what Noah would have wished when Gabranth's first duty was to the young lord whose safety was advanced by this charade?

Bothered, he turned a page in the notebook as he pushed back his chair to move to the adjacent table, and stopped short. He perused the notations and the numbers, his brow knitting tightly over darkened eyes. The pages turned quickly, his eyes skimming, finding what they sought, another page following. The intensity in his eyes grew with each rustled page.

When Ila returned to set her place across from his and welcome him to the table, he was on his feet, having swiftly tucked away the letters, notepad, and unread journal. She met his eyes with a warm smile that as quickly faded. "…You're leaving…" It wasn't a question.

Remorse flitted across Basch's face. "I'm sorry, Lady Wittekind. I wish I could stay… Another time?"

"Of course." She gave him a smile he knew was forced, and in her voice rang notes of grief.

He slipped the helm back on as he passed by the table, set with the meal she'd prepared for him only.

Basch paused with a hand on the door, wishful of dismissing her pain and the vision of his brother's accusing eyes. But there was no cure.

And then he was gone.

* * *

There he left her, a solitary form in the empty eatery, rain hitting the windows and clouds casting ghostly half light across the room.

Ila stood alone beside the table, staring at the setting before her, thoughts tripping through memories…  
Without tasting, she scooped the food into one plate and bowl, and stacked the dishes on the tray with a sigh.  
Her eyes turned to the dimming light from the window, and, with a voice soft and a touch distant, spoke to the shadow that alone remained. "Take care…Judge Magister Gabranth."

* * *

Rain splattered at Basch's feet as he ran, creating ripples and capturing distorted images of the black cape and armored boots, like unnatural visions captured within swirling liquid eyes.

Taking every shortcut he knew, Basch ignored the curious looks of the people who watched his rushed passing from the windows of their homes or from the doorways of their businesses. None called out to him. None questioned or impeded his path. He was Judge Magister Gabranth.

The guards at the gate came to strict attention as he whipped past, some of them having served the palace long enough to recognize the mood, choosing wisdom in their silent regard.

Gabranth's voice was fierce. "Let no one pass without my order!" Without turning his head, the Judge Magister signaled two other guards, "Take reinforcements, secure the cells."

"Yes, sir!" The hands of the guards tightened around the hilts of their swords, recognizing the intensity of the commanding officer, and the sound of armor rattling and boots striking the ground told Basch his orders were being followed.

"Larsa!" It seemed too long until Basch at last pushed open the heavy doors and made his way into the young Emperor's quarters.

"Ba-uh-Gabranth?" Larsa's surprise was quickly controlled, and his astonished eyes blinked and then calmed to the mask of the Emperor.

Zargabaath's lined eyes turned from the heavy book of text that lay open upon his lap. "Your Honor." He nodded his mild greeting.

"You have suffered no disturbance in my absence?" Gabranth searched Zargabaath's face. Basch searched Larsa's eyes.

"None." Zargabaath assured him, his keen eyes on the other man's face. "We have been enjoying a thorough analysis of past military budgets. Next we plan to visit a dissertation on the importance of animal symbolism in military fashion. Fascinating study, I must say."

"Fascinating." Larsa's eyes caught his guardian's, and Basch cut his gaze away so that Zargabaath might not read the spark of laughter that rose with the relief that was swelling in his chest.  
Larsa was safe. He was bored…but he was safe.

"Glad to hear it." Gabranth bowed slightly to the Judge and to his lord. "Pardon the interruption, my lord. I will leave you now to your reading."

Larsa's discontent came in the form of the slightest lowering of the young brow, and in the shifting of his stance. "Gabranth…"  
Larsa led the tall Judge Magister aside.

Zargabaath rifled through the tome upon his knee as if unaware. Basch felt an appreciation for the seasoned Judge's discretion, and yet the question crept from the corner of his mind…Was there nothing this loyal soldier would not look past for the Empire he loved? Be that as it may, at this moment, Gabranth was grateful for his prudence.

"I will accompany you. If there is fighting to be done, I will stand at your side." Larsa's sincere intent was clear.

Basch was at once serious and tense. "I would be proud to fight beside you, my lord, and do not think I doubt the strength of your hand. Only…I ask you…Allow me a little time to more fully discern the matter so that you are not against wisdom led blindly into threat. It is the trust I am given…I would not fail…"

Larsa lifted darkened eyes to Basch's face, and Basch felt the helplessness there, but after a short moment's reflection the young leader revealed his decision. "Of course. You are right to so determine. Thank you for your insight."  
Basch felt the grief in the young face deeply, but Larsa only took a deep breath, and smiled graciously. "Go. Do what you must, with my blessing, Knight of House Solidor. I return to my studies under Judge Magister Zargabaath's able tutelage."

"Thank you, my lord." Basch bowed, his eyes gentle on Larsa's, and restored the helm to his head, reversing his steps through the chamber and past the thick doors and the guards that kept them. He faintly heard the echo of Zargabaath's voice as the doors fell shut.

"Shall we next discuss the symbolic possibilities of the Ozmone Hare or the Great Tortoise…"

Basch once more descended the stone stairwell, toward the cells. Along the steps and down the hallway guards nodded and stood at attention as he passed. All was calm. And yet Basch was uneasy.

He nodded to the guard outside the cell that housed Evit Lukan, and waited to be allowed inside.  
There lay the prisoner upon his cot, silent and still. And in the corner…

The staff of the dual blades at once turned and the guard at his side fell against the stone wall as the sword that had been intended for Gabranth's side fell with him to the floor.  
The soldier came up with a brutal vengeance, lunging for his weapon, which Basch sent clattering away.

The guards were dismayed by their commander's actions, but they stood silent in shock and fear, watching the bewildering clash.

Basch used the joined blades to interrupt the man's desperate charge and flip him into the air. He landed hard, stunned, and Basch subdued the guard at once.  
"Chain him."

The surprised soldiers blinked and watched their superior uneasily.

"Now!"

As one the men shook off the shock induced trance, responding to the intensity in the Judge Magister's voice, and approached, at once fulfilling his command.

Basch removed the man's helm and a murmur of surprise rose within the passage.  
The face they saw was unfamiliar to all. The Judge Magister had uncovered a serpent in their midst.

Basch entered the cell with the staff of the dual blades firmly in his hand. It was as he feared.  
Evit Lukan was dead. Silenced for all time. The prisoner's forewarning had proved true.  
Anger spread through Basch's chest. Anger for the waste of a life. Anger at the prisoner for aiding in his own execution by his refusal to speak. Anger at his own inability to interrupt the fate that claimed another life in his keep.

But Evit Lukan was not the only victim of this violence.  
Lying beside the wall was the true guard of this cell, overcome by a clever pretense.

Basch knelt beside the body of the soldier and removed the guard's helmet.  
The face of the young man was drawn tight by pain. The eyelids flickered, and Basch heard a groan.

"Judge…Magister…" The words left bloodied lips with a whispered struggle, as the soldier stared up into the armored face. Crimson spread from a wound he pressed beneath his weak hand. "One…one of …our own."

The soldier's body relaxed as he submitted to pain and weakness, and Basch felt as much grief for this soldier of Archades as ever he had for one of those that in days past had fought and fallen at his side. For the briefest instant he allowed himself to remember Reks, the boy who had followed him into danger, and found betrayal and finally death…

_Betrayed… _

"Helms off! Everyone!" Gabranth's voice was a growl, as he emerged from the cell.

The compliance to his demand was immediate. And the faces revealed were known, to the relief of all-the Judge Magister no less. A veteran among them approached their commander, face darkened with the bitterness of having been deceived and the disgrace of his own perceived failure. Basch spent no time on blame, turning at once to the business at hand.

"Lieutenant, there is a gravely wounded soldier inside. See him at once to the infirmary. He is in need of immediate care."

The seasoned soldier nodded and directed his men to hurriedly prepare a cot for their comrade.

"What do we do with _this_ one, Judge Magister?"

Basch paused and studied the prisoner somberly. Thick, dark hair fell in unruly tangles around his shoulders, and obscured lifeless eyes within a face much harder than its years.  
Once defeated by the Judge Magister, he had put up no fight, accepting of a fate that would surely be no different than that he'd met out upon his ally.  
Cold as the death he brought with him, silent as the form of the slain, there was no fear, no hate, no trace of expression upon his face.

"Search him carefully for poisons or explosives." Judge Magister Gabranth gave the order and at once the examination began. "Take him to the lowest section of the dungeon." Basch continued, and turned to the lieutenant. "Keep the men away. I want no accidents or incidents. Set only the most trusted to guard him." His voice was stern and low, and, though directed toward the one, his words were meant for and heard by all. "There will be no martyrs made."

"I understand. It will be as you say, Your Honor." The guard bowed slightly, and Basch nodded.

As a select few of the men loaded their wounded fellow soldier upon a cot and took him with haste for care or to his demise, another grim lot herded the bound prisoner to his place of lonely isolation and shame.

Basch was acutely aware of both fates. He stood silent amid the chaos, listening to the echo of soldier's footsteps, the shallow, pained breathing of the wounded guard, and the captive's stumbling gait and rattling of chains.

The palace had been swept for breach, and no sign of other intrusions and no other pretenders were found.

Larsa was safe. Haleine Ranel yet lived.

If the executioner, in the guise of an Archadian soldier, had succeeded in his escape, which of them would have been the next target?

The difference between attacking a prisoner in the dungeon, albeit in the Palace dungeon and guarded by soldiers, compared with making an attempt on the Emperor in his quarters, kept secure by the highest military officers in the Empire, was vast. One man could not do it alone…

His mind turned reluctantly to the assassination of King Raminas, his late sworn liege…  
Yes, Gabranth had plunged the sword…  
With great effort Basch forced his mind to move forward.  
Gabranth had played his part. But the plot itself had been both grand and precise, involving many pieces set with masterful cunning.

These recent events did not seem so tightly woven. That at least was some relief.  
The players had been more impulsively placed, it appeared, and so more easily found out…  
Strategists such as Vayne were not often seen.  
Though…might his own caution and ability to discern draw something from his own experience of being so deceived and betrayed…?  
Again Basch forced his thoughts to move past that scene.  
He would spare no credit for his enemy in the lesson taught.  
The past was what it was, and that was all that would be said.  
He put it away.

Could Evit Lukan's death have been mere punishment?  
If so, who would be sent to settle the debt of honor for the failing of the executioner?  
Already he had warned the guard to keep him on death watch. If none other came to meet out sentence, it must be held possible that the assassin would attempt the task himself.

What of Haleine Ranel? What of Kasan and the grudge that he bore Judge Magister Gabranth?  
How many years had this ill will festered and grown? Was it first his own, or had he inherited the bitterness from another?

The armored hand of Judge Magister Gabranth closed on the notebook. How easily the vague notations slipped between the lines might have escaped the eyes of a less attentive inspection. For Basch fon Ronsenburg the numbers jumped like signal flares from the page and connected one to another, inscribing through blameless lines a condemning record.

The trail listed businesses and amounts, transactions whereby House Ranel had made purchase and transferred sometimes small and sometimes moderate amounts of wealth toward these enterprises.  
Goods acquired, the thin documentation showed. Taken on their own, none of the calculations were circumspect, but together…

It was no wonder House Ranel had succumbed to debt. Their wealth was siphoned like sapping of life's blood into the veins of another's till.

Basch watched the faint breathing of the unconscious woman through reserved eyes. How lifeless and wan she seemed, as if a wayward gust might shatter her fragile body or simply vanish her fey spirit with its caress. …Might his own mother have so appeared when…

Footsteps resonating upon the hard floor afforded an escape from the dour turn of thought.

"Judge Magister. The information you requested." The soldier handed over papers, and waited.

Gabranth read carefully the profiles of each name.

"Where is Kasan Ranel right now?" Gabranth asked thoughtfully.

The man silently offered a festival flier, and Basch skimmed the celebratory verbiage.

He nodded to the soldier. "Thank you. That will be all."

The man turned to go, and suddenly Basch stopped him. "One more thing…"

After the soldier had been dismissed and the echo of his boots had receded, Basch returned to his study.

Evit Lukan: 34, single, Bhujerba-employed with Sandstorm Trade Company, 6 years.

Asa Edrid: 27, single, Dalmasca-employed with Dalmascan Import Supply, 3 years.

Tully Savoy: 37, married, divorced, son, daughter, Dalmasca-employed with Ivalice Mercantile Inc., 10 years.

Haleine Ranel: 51. Wed Inar Ranel, age 18. Widowed age 49. Sole owner of House Ranel-Goods, Accessories, and Weapons.

Kasan Ranel: 30, illegitimate son of Inar Ranel, stepson of Haleine Ranel. Biological mother unknown. Veteran of Archadian Imperial Army. Special Forces with Honor. Fulfillment of Duty. Artisan of House Ranel.

Basch walked close to the bedside, and stared grimly down at the waxen face. Each of the businesses listed here matched those alongside the suspicious figures in the ledger. And each was owned, however cleverly the interests were dispersed, by one family…Denali of Dalmasca.

Armor rattled familiarly as Basch folded his body into a chair beside the cot, and pulled the bundle of letters from a concealed pocket on the inner lining of his thick cape.  
Each letter was written in the same superfluous hand, scented in the same musk, sealed with the same imprinted image in the same wax. The words were flowery and flattering and persuasively scripted toward their treachery. Only one blind would not see. Blind by love or by hate or by need…

Basch removed the helm and addressed the still form. "My lady, so much lost…so much thrown away…" His own heart ached with a pain left buried in the most solemn corner of his soul.

Through the fog that repressed her spirit's will to fly, Haleine tossed, and her lips parted to call through the storm of her dark night, "Kasan…Kasan…my son…" But no answer came.

A tear that had found no right ever to fall for his own grief slipped its restraints and fled swiftly down his cheek. His hand did not rise to cast it away.

When Basch reentered Larsa's quarters, the young Emperor greeted him with a tired smile, and Basch knew the sacrifice the boy made in patience.

"My lord." He stooped and solemnly kissed the hand outstretched to him. Larsa smiled as he acknowledged the formality. This sort of behavior was for the benefit of others such as Judge Magister Zargabaath, who ever so studiously examined another thick and dusty literary selection.

"Thank you, Your Honor, for your support in this matter." Gabranth reverenced his colleague with a slight bow.

"Have you returned then?" His reserved colleague stood, inconspicuously stretched his stiff frame, and turned to the young lord. "With your permission, your Grace, I will take my leave."

"Of course, Judge Magister Zargabaath. I thank you for your compelling company.

"My time is yours, Excellency, always." The veteran Judge Magister too kissed the young hand, and turned for the exit. His eyes slid to Gabranth's face as he passed. A touch of humor slipped to his lips, and Basch, with some surprise, realized that perhaps Zargabaath understood their young lord's feelings on the matter of symbolism and the Great Tortoise.

"My lord?" Basch's grieved eyes begged forgiveness of Larsa and Larsa nodded sincerely.  
Gabranth followed Zargabaath to the vestibule. "Zargabaath. A moment."

"Yes?" The commander removed his hand from the door and turned to meet his associate.

"There must be a suspension in the release of further political prisoners until further investigation can be made. I fear a conspiracy of some sort in the works, and the safety of our lord is in the balance. We cannot let chaos rob us of reason. The security of the Empire is in our hands."

"Of course. I agree with your sentiments, and you will have my cooperation and strict defense if any should question. Privately…shall I ask what brought on this change of mind, or shall I assume it has to do with the lady in our care?

"Assume nothing, Zargabaath. To do so is death." Was Gabranth's stern reply.

"Of course. Of course." Zargabaath touched the tips of his fingers together in deep thought. "…I fear I offend you, Gabranth…" Basch opened his lips to refute the statement, but Zargabaath went on.  
"If ever there was a question of your validity, it has long been settled. Do not believe that I esteem you less for what help you had to make your way."

The surprise in Basch's eyes must have showed, for Zargabaath laughed softly as he went on. "Yes, you are leader of the 9th Bureau, but you are not alone in the ability to garner information, my friend. One does not rise to the honor of Judge Magister, Elite Knight of House Solidor, on name or good will alone. Some dexterity of skill and subtlety of mind are also required-even for those of us whose connections were more binding." His voice was dry and laced with amusement.

"Your Honor." Basch cut his eyes away to cover confusion as questions raced through his mind. Would this part he played never become clearer?

"Friendship may have given you your start," The senior Judge Magister expounded, "but it did not give the title you bear. By this I mean only to suggest…" Zargabaath sighed, frustrated with his own inexact elucidation; wearied from reading so many mindless lines of rambling text. "…If yet you feel some loyalty to the Ranel family, do not fear it. That is all."

Basch nodded. It was all he could manage. And Zargabaath let himself out.

Larsa waited until the heavy clanking sound signaled the doors were shut, and made his way to where his guardian stood frozen in thought.  
"Are you well, Basch?"

Basch turned his eyes at once to the young leader in his protection, and answered as he yet struggled to collect his thoughts and emotions. "I am. Thank you, my lord."

Larsa reached out and took his armored hand within his own. "Thank _you_, my friend." His voice was soft and his eyes were full of understanding. "For all that you have done and all that you have suffered today on my behalf."

For a brief moment Basch was overcome with the wish to pull the boy into a fatherly embrace, and let the worry and pain and confusion and struggle be pushed away.

How many times when he was a boy, struggling to sort out some question in his mind, had his father tramped out to find him in one of the very few hiding places known not even to his brother. There he would put an arm about his young son's shoulders, pull him close, and let him rest beneath his arm, the two of them agreeable in their silence. How Basch had missed those times after his father was gone…  
His mother had well understood his internalization, and gently she found ways to help him open the doors he closed inside, believing it at times best. Perhaps she was right. But his father had allowed him that silence without question. And young Basch had found peace in that acceptance many times when he could not face the words needed to explain.

But this was no mere child. This was Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, Emperor of the mighty Archadian Empire, upon whose shoulders the destiny of countless fell.  
Whether by the name Gabranth or fon Ronsenburg, Basch could not make such a familiar claim.  
Fate had given them their roles, and duty must keep them.

Still, Basch put his free hand on Larsa's shoulder, and let it linger there as the young leader looked at him with relief that he had returned unharmed, and spoke with gentle affection. "I am thankful you are here, Basch. Always I am thankful."

And then Larsa looked away thoughtfully, and Basch bent his head in concern toward the boy who spoke hesitantly. "Basch..."

"Yes, Larsa?" The face of the young Emperor's guardian was drawn with worry.

"Unless you wish to discuss the symbolism in the design of your helm, let us just this time forgo our nightly reading..."

"Yes, my lord."

"You...will not mind overmuch?"

"There will be tomorrow."

"Thank you, Basch."

"...Of course, Larsa."


	19. The Guilty Innocent

In the restoration of the newly reinstated Dalmascan Kingdom, proudly become the gallant standard for independence and peace, a well secured underground dungeon for the holding of enemies was not excluded, though the centuries old prison tower was done away with, the symbolism of a darker past swept away in the light of a new dawn. And yet stark reality will march forward, unmindful of optimism ethereal.  
Indeed, the cells below were renewed with bars, stone, and mortar made increasing strong. Also it must be said that the guards set to watch the prisoners therein were at all times grave in visage, resolved to their duty of keeping the peace fed by so much precious life's blood, their shoulders burdened by this same debt.

The Captain of the Castle Guard had not spoken to his men on the identity of the prisoner, but all understood this was an important capture of a man who had, if no more, murdered their influential compatriot, Meret Denali. It was certain the family would demand swift and absolute justice be done on his behalf. There was a measure of excitement within those soldiers returning to Dalmasca with their prisoner. A whisper of promotions and commendations passed between the few, ignored by the young Captain, who did not share their enthusiasm.  
His sharp witted second, Wulf, also unaffected by murmurs of possible acclaim, watched closely the eyes of his Captain move to the prisoner and turn again away, increasingly shadowed by more than the fall of day, and kept his thoughts, and for once his tongue, silent.

When under the Captain's direction, the company blindfolded the prisoner and bypassed more traditional paths to usher the man to his captivity along secret ways and down darkened stone passages, it was not difficult for any of keen mind to determined circumstances surpassed current revelation. An electricity of emotion ran through the group, save for the two officers and their prisoner, who each understood in their own way that this day brought nothing to celebrate but something instead to mourn.

The prisoner that came into the Castle underbelly was bound severely, and the blood that seeped through fabric at his side had now fixed to the same in a sticky half-dry crust. Though silent throughout the journey, now and then a catch of breath and a stiffening of the lips betrayed pain, and when an eager guard pushed him forward into the cell the motion felled him to his knees.

Brought roughly again to stand, the chains were removed only to be exchanged, as a longer expanse of heavy links, mounted into the wall, was affixed to the prisoner by iron cuffs, the grim bracelets applied upon chaffed, whelped wrists and secured by key.

Jaiger Quinn, Captain of Dalmasca officially for just these last months of peace, had earned his place by first serving as a guard before the death of the King. After the fall, he had without hesitation joined the Resistance, gathering remnants of the guard about him and reviving with his resolve their shattered spirits, to become the unofficial Captain of their few. Thereafter, he served without regard for his own life, and without public accolade, for the endurance of the struggle, now and then receiving unofficial orders from the obscure leaders of their cause. It is very possible his name might have been lost to the shadows of the day, with so many others whose honorable deeds died with them, if not for the anonymous reference and testimonial of his deeds and courage, attested by others after the first had turned the attention of the Queen his way. Now honored Dalmascan Knight, Captain of the Castle Guard, Jaiger answered to the Queen and was known to her by name. Within his company there was no jealousy of his position, and the casual interaction between the men and their Captain did not imply any lack of regard. The Captain had the trust of his men, and they his.

"Wulf." The young Captain spoke quietly but his second answered his call with a meeting of the eyes and a nod of acknowledgement. "Secure this block to full strength. I want none in this vicinity without authorization. Set a lookout against possible acts of retribution. Denali's family can pay for their own sword if they find the sharpness of our blade not enough to suit."

"I understand."

"And Wulf…"

"Yes?"

"I require a few minutes alone with the prisoner. See we are not disturbed." Jaiger's voice was somber.

Wulf nodded, at once cleared the sector, and his voice carried as he fulfilled his Captain's orders.

* * *

Even blindfolded and weakened, Noah had mentally charted the route taken. For too many years he had worked in secret to forget the ways now. If need be he could retrace the steps, and would require no map or light to guide.  
But escape was an option that not only his enemy would deny him but that he would also deny himself. The words of the young Captain came to him again and again, reminding him that the fate of others rested upon his compliance and submission to what might come.  
If his death was the price of their peace he would willingly accept whatever end.  
Noah was well acquainted with the grim specter that he had first sensed when the messengers came with news of his father's demise, had felt so intensely the day his mother's eyes had dimmed, and could have sworn he'd glimpsed walking shrouded among the dead and wounded strewn at the feet of war. With every meeting he had lost his reason to hope for his own life, and also lost his reason to dread losing it.  
For Larsa, the Kingslayer would willingly suffer any punishment and die without complaint.  
For Faolyn…For Faolyn, Noah would give himself to any unmentionable terror. His heart washed with relief that Faolyn would be far from this scene. …And yet…  
Noah was reminded of his own promise to the young one, and regret and grief hit him hard.

"How does it feel to be home, Basch?" Jaiger removed the blindfold and stepped back, reading the sorrow on the face of the prisoner before him.

Noah was silent. What of Basch in all this? The question flitted restlessly through his mind. But he silenced the voice with an answer.  
Basch was made no more guilty if the assassin was executed in his name than ever he was.  
Though history said otherwise, his brother could rest in his current situation knowing he had brought no shame to their family…by either name.

Another pang of sorrow struck him as two sets of familiar eyes met him with disappointment.  
He had taken his mother's name thinking to honor her in her homeland, and thinking not to disrespect his father's memory by bringing the name he'd been given at birth into service of a land that had swallowed his father's people whole-a people once his own. And now he had dishonored both.

The hot touch of shame, like an iron upon his heart, told him eternity would be lonely and difficult to endure, and a longing swept through him to once again be seated in the house that had almost become home, listening to the old man complain, eating serpent stew…with Faolyn happy at his side.

Jaiger saw the grief turn to a slight smile, and frowned, cutting his eyes away. Something bothered him about this man. He was unsure what it was. But maybe it was simply this, Basch fon Ronsenburg, the Captain he'd idolized when he'd began his service, still just a boy really, stood before him in chains, slayer of the King they'd sworn to protect. For his sake, so many had died that night. And then at the Faire he had the audacity to speak to him of how much _Dalmasca_ owed? Of all he had done in _service _before that fateful day? And to seem as if he meant it!  
It would have been better if Basch fon Ronsenburg would have owned his full allegiance to Archadia, and disavowed any love of Dalmasca and the cause. Maybe then, Jaiger told himself, staring at the blood speckled face of the man before him, maybe then he could almost understand. But how could this man claim yet some regard for their land, and offer no _regret_ or _explanation_ for such a terrible betrayal?

"If I told them, you'd not pass the night." The young Captain's voice was hushed, though there were none nearby.

Noah stared at the floor, accepting the barrage of anger he foresaw coming his way.

"Look me in the eye, _Captain-_if you can bear to see the truth!" Jaiger's voice became threatening, though it remained low, and he leaned toward the prisoner who for the moment slumped against the wall catching his breath and standing yet only because the chains would not allow his body to fall.

As Noah measured his breathing and gathered his strength to return to full height, he questioned… Did his brother really deserve this, even in name? Should this Captain not know that he had no reason to hate the one he had once admired and followed? Might that after all be best? But that decision was not his. It belonged to Larsa, to Dalmasca's Queen, and perhaps to Basch himself. He had no part of that call. He could not risk placing Larsa in danger by loose words now. Remembering his dreams when first he'd come to Tarachande's hand, Noah cautioned himself to lock away the important things, deliberately, while he still had the presence of mind to do so…

Jaiger watched the prisoner's face tighten, his lips narrow, as he pushed off the wall and stood to meet the Captain's gaze somberly. A momentary sensation of sympathy was dismissed forcibly, as against his own nature Jaiger continued to harshly press. "They call you the Kingslayer…But do you know how many of those men lost family and friends when Dalmasca fell? Does their pain mean nothing to you? Nothing at all?"

Noah said softly, "They are soldiers. Soldiers know death is the business of war." The words cut him as they passed his lips. He endured the grief as a no less than deserved penalty, as he endured Jaiger's words as a bitter truth. Acute pain in the young Captain's eyes met him, and Noah's spirit could not help but silently call, without defense but in shared sorrow, _"Do you know, Captain, how many men I lost? How many sons and brothers and fathers of Archadia went out to war for honor and glory or love of home and land, without knowledge of any plan, to never come again to those who prayed them safe return? For what did they die? Who will grieve the lost of the defeated aggressor? Who will tell their story? Who will remember?"  
_He remembered. He could not forget. Bodies of Archadian soldiers quietly returned for burial so as not to arouse the dismay and displeasure of the citizens. And the other dread list of names for whom no body could be found to give over to the grieving families, listed forever as missing without place to rest. Each one of these sent so easily to death, for a diversion or a calculated test or as an unwitting part to a master plan, by a wave of Vayne's hand. Orders passed through the chain of command by Judge Magisters, so many had received their order from Gabranth…who yet survived.

"Do you think taking your freedom, or even taking your life, repays them for what they have lost? I tell you,_ Captain_, it does not. And part of me…an unrelenting, ruthless part of me that I have not wished to set free, wishes, longs almost unbearably, to call them, to allow them their bloody, cathartic vengeance. I could only promise you it would not be something for the faint of heart to witness. I am uncertain I could endure the task of watching…without being compelled by this darkness I feel to join. And even you would beg for release from this horror before death would take your life in pity." Jaiger's eyes were hard, his voice was like a razor, and yet he was being careful, keeping his voice to a rough whisper, and not coming near enough to be tempted to lay a hand on the prisoner.

Noah watched the young man fighting with himself, and began to gather his own will, steeling internally against the coming torment. He would not disgrace himself, or his brother through him, any further by breaking…no matter the agony. Judge Magister Gabranth had faced unfathomable pain more than once. He would welcome this anguish as justice if it was to be. And yet… "What of the others, Jaiger?"

The young man's voice cracked slightly. "You will address me as Captain!" His hands clenched to fists and he took a step back as if to tame himself. He was nearing the end of his ability to contain the raging tide that wished to take him.

Noah quietly rephrased, and addressed the young man with the respect due him. "Captain…are your men the only ones who suffered? Are they the only ones who have lost those they love? Dalmasca has soldiers outside these under your command. And what of the citizens outside these castle walls? If your men deserve vengeance, do not these also deserve their part?" Noah hesitated, and then forced himself to say what he wished not to. "And what of your Lady, Ashelia, Queen of Dalmasca, into whose service you are called?"

"I also serve the people."

"Is this the people that you wish to serve? Reeking of hate and wild with lust for blood?"

The young Captain winced, and backed as if shoved. He gasped the words, "You have no right…"

"Did your men fight and your people die for death? I had thought I heard tell of a grander cause, but perhaps I heard wrong. You tell me."

"The great _Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg_… How the people championed you. You _are_ only a deceiver after all."

Noah took a ragged breath, and let it out slowly. "You think too much on me. Remember yourself." And then he shrugged his constricted shoulders as he gave over the decision of what would be into the young soldier's hands, and continued tiredly. "Or be consumed by hate. Perhaps it will keep you alive, and from being alone… Whatever suits your needs best, Captain."

Noah did not know, or have remaining interest in wondering, what the young Captain's next move would be. He was ready to bear it, and lacked strength for anything else.  
But slowly the young man's breathing became more regulated, his clenched fists loosened, and his eyes lost the mad gleam. Jaiger took a shaky breath and looked thoughtfully at the prisoner.  
"And so you save yourself with reason when you cannot with a sword?"

Noah laughed bitterly, thinking of how he had provoked his brother and his companions, including this young man's Queen, to war with him, desperate only for Larsa's salvation, angered most by his own helplessness in the task, knowing then that the end would likely be his own death. Saving himself, _for himself_, had never been something he was good at, reason or no. And yet here he was. Why?  
Well…it mattered not. Soon it would be over. Too soon, or too late?  
He was still young enough, to hear tell, but his life had seemed so endlessly long…  
Not by years but by consequences of choices long ago made, it was too late for those things one dreams of when they are young and free.  
…What of Faolyn? Would he be strong enough to go on and find his path alone? Would he at the least be happy with the old man? The needs of the old and the needs of the young were not the same, but Tarachande loved the boy in a rather gruff, grandfatherly way. He would do all possible for him…  
Noah's eyes closed without thought in a breath of desperate prayer for the boy, and opened on Jaiger's watchful eyes.

"I don't understand you at all." The young Captain stated bluntly.

Noah laughed softly, with no touch of mocking, and the young man's face twisted in question. Noah looked on him with softening eyes. He was very young, this Captain of Dalmasca, and already had endured much it was clear. Would there ever be a day when the young could do those things in stories told…enjoy cheerful adventure, fall in love, wed, live in contented peace with their brothers and sisters, raising families…or was that happiness for fables only, passed down from generation to generation as a kind lie, meant to mask the true sorrow that was life and so make the burden easier to bear…?  
"Yes, I think you do…although you do not know it yet." Noah's eyes grew sad, and he sighed heavily and slumped back against the wall.

Captain Jaiger Quinn was silent, pondering the strange words, and then turned and left.

Noah heard the rattling of the door as it shut up his cage, and listened as the boots echoed down the passageway. How many prisoners had listened to his footfall the same. Too many. Far too many.

In the following silence his dreams were filled with snippets of color and sound.  
_Faolyn racing across the meadow upon the Chocobo.  
Larsa happy at Basch's side.  
The dark eyes and bronzed hair of a young woman.  
Drace, slashing him across the side with her sword during combat training that she called recreation-scolding him about shunning the tigress for the tabby cat as Zecht roared in laughter.  
The faces of soldiers fading in and out again. Young, wounded, heartbroken by deceit and grief. Seasoned, tired, worn by the weight of surviving.  
A shadowy, solemn form, ill and troubled. Tarachande calling. Vayne, powerful, mocking...Pain…Pain…_

Noah came from his unconscious state with a start. "Even a stray has pride!" The words escaped his lips before his uncomprehending eyes saw the face of the physician hovering over him.  
He had been released from the wall, but his hands and feet were now secured individually to irons at the head and foot of the cot he laid upon, preventing him from forcing away the rough hands scraping his wound. An astringent was applied and then a heavy needle poked and prodded as it tied his parted skin back together.  
…Almost this made the old man seem gentle. Noah would have preferred to do this himself, actually, if he could have managed, and if they'd have given him the choice.  
Easier to control such pain when it's self-inflicted.  
As he fought to regain conscious control over his breathing, Noah turned his head and saw again the face of Jaiger Quinn. The young Captain stood by the door of the cell. His second, Wulf, reclined against the bars, feet crossed, arms intertwined behind his head, seeming unaffected by the situation. His eyes said differently.

Jaiger caught Noah's eyes, frowned, and looked away. He said something to Wulf, who nodded and moved aside to let his Captain exit.

The physician finished, and wasted no time on compassion or sympathy for the prisoner. Why bother when the condemned is likely guilty of dread charges and apt to be buried soon regardless of the success of treatment.  
But the middle-aged and portly physician did hand the guard a vial. "See he drinks this as soon as he's fully awake. Try not to let him choke on the potion. Those things don't make themselves. They shouldn't be wasted."

"_This to you, if I be gone…"_ A crystal flask of liquid sparkling in the light. Wine or poison, he had wondered…There were stories of rulers taking their secrets to the grave by ensuring their hounds joined them in death. It had seemed unlikely, what with Gramis' belated paternal desire to protect his young son from danger within, and having entrusted the task to Gabranth. Still…Gabranth had long been aware of the kind of deeds the elder Solidor was capable of. The question had to be considered.  
But when Vayne had presented Gramis' death as murder by the Senate, and ruthlessly forced Gabranth to end the life of his closest ally on charge of treason, the question of poison had not mattered much. After snatching Larsa from the path of Vayne's destruction, Gabranth had drunk the entirety of the flask, indifferent to the ingredients if they might by chance ease the pain-whether for the moment or for eternity. The concoction had done neither and alone before the mirror he had scourged himself verbally, without mercy, for the weakness of even allowing himself the hope of escape when his task was left undone and with no other left to take his place. The crystal had shattered against the wall. The maid had removed any trace.

"Huh. A Phoenix Down." It was a mere breath, the word, but Wulf scowled at the mention.

"You wish. It's just a weak potion. Mostly water. They don't waste the good stuff on condemned felons. …There is a little justice left in this Ivalice."

Noah didn't correct the young man's mistaken interpretation of his words. As Wulf smirked, Noah continued to think on the sudden revelation. Phoenix Downs were the stuff of legend. Meant for Kings, Queens, and Emperors-and costing a small fortune. It was considered worthwhile to such powerful and wealthy persons to ransom their lives from fate, where others of less status and purse, if they could not survive on potions and tonics and salves and such, simply succumbed. Most Phoenix Downs only worked when administered by another in the field of battle, after the heart had lost its count. But there were rumors of another sort that one might take beforehand…preferred if going into a battle alone, or if you knew you were likely to soon be struck down by villainous intent.  
Gramis had known he was dying. His ill health would not have taken him much further. He might have taken the precious liquid himself… And yet still he would have been old and unable to defend his young son… And to give it to Larsa would yet have left the child young, vulnerable, trapped…  
It became clearer… After all the bloody man had done to his children, there, at the end, he sacrificed his own self for a foolhardy grasp at hope for the life of his young son…by strengthening the shield.  
Perhaps, Noah reflected, his sacrifice was two-fold. …Noah had his own thoughts on the Emperor's death… What necessity might Gramis have justified to see House Solidor continue with Vayne so close to being removed from power for perceived recklessness, and the Senate so eager to consume the youngest member of the line…

"What do you know? I'm to be your keeper. Lucky you. Lucky me." The chair screeched across the floor, and Wulf sat down, stretched his long legs to prop up on the cot, pushing carelessly against Noah's chained legs as he tipped the legs of the chair back.

"Wulf, is it?" Noah couldn't resist the dry jab in his tone. The guard had irritated him by interrupting the thoughts that had taken his mind from his present situation, from all that might now befall those dear to him, from the pain in his heart and side…

"That's right. But be careful, _Basch._" He spoke the name with contempt, and seemed pleased when Noah turned surprised eyes on him, not having realized Jaiger had shared the information with his friend. "Like you said, even a stray has pride...and like I say…a wild dog is most vicious."

Wulf took the top from the vial and lifted the flask to his own lips, sighing with contentment when the refreshing potion had done its work and renewed his energy. "That was good. That was really, really good." He winked at the prisoner, and his eyes yet held the glimmer of threat as he shrugged and grinned. "Just making sure it didn't go to waste."

Noah ignored the throbbing pain not just in his side but throughout his body, and remarked wryly, "Fortunate for you it wasn't poison."

Wulf watched the indifferent prisoner closely for a moment, and then chuckled-eyes still hard in his young face. "You know, _Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg_…I don't remember you being this witty."

The chair legs fell to the floor with a clatter, scraped shrilly with the force of being moved, the door to the cell rattled, and Wulf was gone.

If the lighting had been better, or if Noah had a better view from where he was chained, he might have seen the shadow of the young man as he rested with his back against the humid stone, hands pressed to cover his face from signs of grief.

* * *

Long after the shower of sparks in the sky had faded and disappeared, the people were talking about the strange occurrence at the Faire. A few lines of gossip were also circling about a fight at one of the encampments. The artisans and merchants excitedly exchanged slivers of information and misinformation, agreeing only that someone was dead. There was a disagreement about whether the Dalmascan guard had taken someone into custody over the matter or if the culprit had fled. Some said they'd seen an airship lift off from nearby. Some said there was an artisan dead. Some said it was the artisan who was the murderer. But it was true there was an armor and weapons display scattered upon the grounds, tent torn and smashed into the earth. Some had already started slipping a sword or dagger or an odd decorative item away. After all, they'd been abandoned...

The Seeq could not resist the talk of treasure. Biddie needed something new…  
Not that Zol needed excuse.

He poked around the site, ignoring the weapons for the moment, hoping for something _prettier _and more _delicate_...like _Biddie_. It was then he saw the necklace…peaking from beneath a fold of the tent where the small pouch that housed it had fallen in the scuffle. Yes…_very_ pretty…a little old…kind of small…but pretty!

…Maybe Biddie could wear it for a bracelet…


	20. Pillar of Ashe

She leaned forward, hands upon the thick stone railing of the balustrade, peering across the night sky, lost in the stars. The humid breeze moved through her hair, the feathery threads reaching forward to tickle her solemn cheeks and tempt a smile as her subconscious memory recalled a time when Rassler had quietly stepped from the shadow and awakened her from pondering with the caress of his lips against her face. As quickly the soft touch of a smile was banished by a stern frown, and she stepped back a pace, wrapping her arms about herself in defense against a chill unrelated to the wind and weariness unconnected to lack of sleep.

Below, and across the court yard in the main terrace, she could from her vantage even at this hour see, lit by the moon, and matching its cold, pristine beauty, a statue of a Lady, sword clasped firmly in one hand, dove rising to flight at the outstretched fingers of the other, her own face lifted with righteous resolution to the sky as at her feet there bloomed the desert rose.  
The sculpture was a gift from the citizens of Dalmasca to welcome their Queen, and to celebrate with her return their own repair and the rebirth of their homeland. The symbol in the stone was clear. She liked little to look on it… Heavy was the burden to bear.

Daily she endeavored to do all that was her duty, and more, to ensure that freedom and peace would, like the desert rose, take hold in this dry and thirsty soil and bloom. She met with advisers, spoke with the citizens, and visited the ruins and wreckage of her country, encouraging the people with her concern that they were not forgotten, ensuring their loyalty by giving to them her own. Her soldiers, so many of them so very young, brothers and sons and surviving remnants of what had once been a proud and strong force, mingled with the people, and worked beside them to aid as well they could, for they came from among them and the wounds of the people were their hurts too.

Still there remained a ripple in the undercurrent of the land. The true road of peace would be a long process, and not as easy as it might have seemed in those first few weeks. The rush of victory had mellowed to relief and tempered to reflection, and no longer did Archadian travelers veer away from their borders, fearful of meeting with retribution at the hands of the empowered Dalmascans. But there was yet a voice of the people that whispered, a pulse that smoldered, and a look in the eyes of one out of so many that she met, imploring their Queen that she should not, for their sake, forget.

Ashe looked at the ring upon her hand, and stroked it softly with her fingertips. Sometimes it was hard to say just how much of her memory was fact and how much was legend and how much was the stuff of wishes. When she thought of his face, was it a memory or a dream that smiled?

She watched the castle guard, scattered across the sweeping grounds, with their armor and weapons, and thought of the days, not so long passed, when as a young girl she would stand and delight in seeing her father's troops in formation below. She loved the sight of them loosing the arrows or slashing with the sword. It was all a game…  
And then came the first time a soldier whose name she had known had not returned from battle. She had shoved aside her tutors and keepers and stormed to her rooms to fling herself upon her bed and sob angry, hot tears. When none other could console her sorrow or endure her raging grief, the young Captain had come, grim and pale with grief of his own, his sorrow aged by repetition of loss. He had no words to make the pain less, but gave a caution, "This is your charge, my Princess, to live for that for which these die. Honor their cause, and so honor them." He had stood beside her bed, her nursemaid watching closely from a distance, and he had after a moment of silence turned to go. But then he had paused, looking back at her with eyes heavy. "To the dead give respect, my lady. To the living give hope."  
She had given no sign of hearing him, and he had left weary, but it was not long before she stood upon the balcony where the Castle guard might see, looking every bit the part she played in the scheme.  
The Captain had caught sight of her and his face had lightened, and then once again set toward the next mission. He hoped for her, and she for him, and together they had hoped for the cause of freedom and for the sons and daughters of Dalmasca who fought to defend it. So long ago, and yet on nights like this it seemed only a moment had passed since.  
_…dear Basch…_

Jaiger took the interior passageways swiftly, unencumbered by shadow that darkened his path. He did not bother with the more public areas of the castle, the many rooms where advisers met and people came to seek audience, the places where the Queen might entertain guests, the libraries, the art rooms, the dining halls, the gardens, the Throne Room. There was no need. He knew exactly where she would be…

The guards along the way greeted their Captain with a slight bow, but, unusual for the courteous young commander, he was particularly grim and too focused to return their respects with his customary quiet smile and nod. The tension in his stride sent unsettled glances between the soldiers, but they held their stations and watched as he made his way toward the quarters of the Queen. At the carved doors the guards stepped aside for the Captain to enter.

Jaiger passed like a wraith through the hallway of the Queen's chamber, making his way to the balcony. There Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca stood at the thick railing, staring toward the darkened sky, the stirring air wafting through her hair. She could not see it, but she was a beautiful, inspiring sight, her cheeks flushed with feeling, her face grim with purpose.  
The young Captain stepped forward quietly, not able to help but accept a touch of a smile through the heaviness of the weight that lay upon him. He followed her gaze and saw the sculpture that was presented to their queen as a symbol of the nation's hope-hope rising from the ruins and reaching for the light above.  
…In stone below, in flesh before him, _she_ was their symbol of hope.  
The men protected her as if all depended on her heartbeat, and at least in spirit it was so.  
The smile about the young Captain's lips vanished and the burden of responsibility returned two and three fold as he considered his duty to her, to his men…and the unpleasant reason that had driven him here.

Her eyes were looking past the bounds of this nightfall into the pages of another day when the footsteps reached her ears. Not even here, not even now, long past the respectably accepted hour of sleep, was she her own.

"My Lady." The Captain held his helm in his hands and bowed before his Queen who turned with a frown.

"You really should use more thought, Captain. It is quite late. It might seem improper."

"My Lady?" The young Captain's eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and Ashe turned her head, exasperated. Such was the life of a Queen. No privacy, even in her own rooms, even upon her own balcony. But then truthfully the Castle belonged to the people. She belonged to the people.

"My apologies…" Jaiger's voice was soft, hesitant, and deferential.

"Well? What is it?" Ashelia's voice was more impatient than her intent, and she knew regret as her Captain's serious eyes shifted to betray his remorse at earning her displeasure. Sometimes it was tiresome, the necessity of being mindful that these young warriors were in some ways like children. Yes, most were older than she and harshly war tested, many battle scarred, but each looked to her for approval with worshipful, hopeful eyes, her Captain no less. None of them knew her heart or had seen her wavering and doubting. She feared their spirit and will would be broken if ever they did.

Basch had expected no less of her than that she look for hope for their people and fulfill her duty to them. It was this cause he served. It was this cause that gave him the duty he now made his own…He served hope, with or without her…

Ashe sighed and turned to meet the eyes of her Captain, and suddenly she saw in the dark orbs something she had missed in his tone.  
Pity…He was protecting her from something…  
"What is it?"

He hesitated, his brow furrowed over troubled eyes.

"What is it, Captain? Tell me now!" Her voice was absolute, and his lips tightened as he resigned himself to the end for which he'd come.

"My lady…" His voice was strained. "We have Basch fon Ronsenburg." Jaiger expected sorrow and saw instead a light of anticipation within her eyes. Shaken, uncertain of what to feel for his Queen, he stumbled as he continued. "My lady…he…has murdered Meret Denali, citizen of Dalmasca."

The light within the young Queen's eyes faded to a strange spark of emotion that ignited as anger toward her young Captain. "You are mistaken! Take me to him! Now!"

"A dungeon is no place-" Rebuked, Jaiger felt keenly his Queen's dissatisfaction, and struggled with her violent emotion.

"Do not tell me my place, Captain! Keep your own!"

The young man's face went pale and his chin lifted slightly against the stinging reprimand. But he was even and hushed in his response. "As you wish, my Queen."

In the current circumstance, his consideration and muted tone grated on Ashe's nerves, and she frowned as she stormed ahead of her pensive Captain. "Keep up, Jaiger."

The young Captain's eyes were somber, and he was silent a moment before he replied, "Yes, my Lady."

Ashe could not keep her heart from racing as she walked swiftly through the passage, her highly decorative, high-heeled, armored boots creating a different pitch than those of her Captain. She took two steps for each of his, and yet he was beside her, slowed to her gait.  
As she moved, the train of her floor-length overskirt, held to her hips by an ornamental belt, billowed behind her like a cape, the cutaway in front whipping aside to reveal slight shorts, black with blue stitching. Her bustier was also armored, and matched the filigreed bronzed bands about her upper arms.

Wulf was leaning against the clammy stone, legs crossed at the ankle, arms twined over his chest.  
When he heard the duet of footsteps drumming down the passageway his head turned, and one brow was raised in mild interest, and yet he made no move until his Captain and Queen were upon him. Jaiger's pointed look brought him to attention with a mild touch of laughter in his eyes. His Queen took no notice. Too focused was she on one purpose. She strode past the guard to stand outside the locked door of the prisoner's cage.

"Unlock the cell!" Ashe snapped at the men, impatient and anxious.  
Jaiger moved forward to oblige his Queen, but when the Captain moved to follow Ashe inside, she firmly motioned him back. "Stay."  
Wulf's eyes hardened, lost their glimmer of humor, and shifted away.

Jaiger moved back to give his Queen her privacy while yet maintaining his view of the cell, against the unlikelihood that the prisoner might escape his secured state and do her harm.

Ashe could not repress the eagerness and nervous energy she felt, nor her displeasure with her young Captain for this grievous error. Whatever was the cause of this misunderstanding, Basch would explain. And then they would sit together and talk about the changes that had come by the fledgling alliances being built across Ivalice. He would be interested to know of her recent conversation with Ondore and perhaps he might join her in the diplomatic conference with the unlikely Rozarrian envoy, General Dimas Apolinar. But first to settle this matter, and free Basch from his chains.

Ashe approached the bedside and was instantly wary. Basch's hair…it was black. Why? Was not the intent in masquerading in the role of Gabranth to pass as closely as possible to…?

Where was the scar?

…!

Noah waited for what he knew would come, and watched with a dull ache in his chest as the expectancy on the young woman's face turned to stunned disbelief and from this to horror and on to blazing white-hot rage.  
Her lips went pale, and her face was as gray as her name. Her fists clenched. Her body shook. But all that came from her lips was, "You!"

Noah did not break away from her revolted gaze. He had expected no less. Ashe hated him, but for the good of her Kingdom…for Basch… "Lady Ashe-"

"Silence!" Her voice shook with hate.

"Larsa is in danger! And others with him! Your own Kingdom-"  
The command meant nothing to the prisoner. Though he knew he could not escape the binds placed upon him, he struggled against reason, as he struggled against her refusal to hear his words. Desperation for those in peril relieved him of pride and shame.

Ashe shut her ears to his pleas, not even able to hear her own brusque orders to her guards to open and then shut the doors, retracing her path from the cage and traversing again the route to her quarters like a lost and wandering ghost.

The young Captain, who (in thoughtful silence and three steps behind) escorted his Queen safely to her rooms, did not attempt to accompany her through the entry. He was unsurprised when the heavy doors slammed in his face.  
Eyes shadowed, he ordered the guards to tour the grounds, and bid them be on increased alert. As they departed, Jaiger looked once more toward the firmly closed chamber, and stood to guard the treasure inside.

* * *

Ashe tore off her outer clothing, the armored pieces clanking violently to the floor. If truly, as it seemed, she had been stabbed in the heart, she would have been relieved of this unremitting agony by now and been granted release. Her breath came in short gasps; her hands were clenched tightly, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands as the walls circled in her spinning vision.

Somehow she made it to her washroom, and leaned over the marble facilities, retching uncontrollably.

To think she had been _almost_ _grateful _when her father's murderer had chosen a measure of honor in his attack on Vayne at the end-though she was able to discount any reason for thanks by reminding herself that he only did his duty to Larsa. But she had _almost_ been _sorry_ when he had been carried, broken and dying, from the scene, gasping with every step taken by those who carried him, unable to keep hold of consciousness through unbearable pain. And she had _almost mourned_, for the sake of Larsa…and for Basch...when she had seen the sorrow in the face of the child heir to the great Empire and the unconcealed ache of loss in Basch's blue eyes.

But there had been no reason for her almost pity! The Kingslayer had lived!

Basch had_ lied_…to _her_…

Her head hung down, and the hair that had earlier softly ruffled in the air now lay tangled and sticky with sweat upon her neck and forehead, strands stuck to her cheeks as if plastered there.

It had been a ruse to deceive her…It must be true…  
Had they worked it out between them before the end?  
Is this why Basch had left Gabranth alive when they had otherwise defeated him?

Before her enemy, the anger had kept her strong enough to stand, but now she only felt pale and thin, sick with hurt and despair.

When there was nothing left to vomit, and her vision had stabilized somewhat, she crawled from her place on the floor and pulled herself up to the basin, washing her hands and face in the darkness-afraid of seeing her own face in the light.

From there she moved slowly, holding the walls and grasping furniture to steady her trembling legs, to her bed. She managed to pull back the thick comforters, ill named, to collapse and lay motionless within the luxurious sheets.

Her body shaking between sobs, she did not feel the tears that fell hot down her cheeks to soak the pillow long after her body had succumbed to a restless sleep.

Outside her door Jaiger stood with sad eyes within his weary face, feeling every ragged breath that came so very softly to his ears as if the anguish were his own.

Before morning light Wulf came to relieve his Captain, who would not accept the offer, and went away again to stand guard outside the prisoner's cell.

With the dawn, Ashe emerged, to the surprise of her exhausted Captain, appearing untouched and unaffected by the events of the past night, grandly bedecked in Queenly attire and well outfitted with armored pieces of adornment. Her appearance was cold and fierce.

With a strange light in her eye, and no notice of her Captain's personal attention to her safekeeping, Ashe gave the young man a dire set of commands.

He reacted physically to her words, startled and alarmed, and could not help but stutter, "Your Highness…are you certain?"

The young Queen's jaw flexed and her eyes flashed. "Do not question me, Jaiger!"

Reproved, the young man's face went taut and lost a shade of color. Silenced by her words, he dipped his head obediently and surrendered to her will.

From inside his cage, now chained again to the wall, Noah could hear scraps of the exchange between the Captain and his second in the passageway.

"What?" Wulf's voice raised incredulously, and Jaiger hushed him.

"Quiet. I don't like it any more than you, but she is our Queen. It is her word, and it is our Queen we serve." Jaiger's voice was soft, tired, but firm.

"We serve the people! Tell me how this helps them!" Wulf resisted angrily, and there was silence for a moment.

Finally Jaiger sighed heavily, his voice aged beyond his years.  
"Please, Wulf. Don't fight me on this. We've endured too much to turn back now. The task must be seen through. …I need your support."

"Then you have it, my Captain…as always." Wulf's voice lost its combative edge, taking instead a brotherly affection.

Jaiger sighed once again, this time relieved. "Thank you, my friend. Gather the men. Let us begin our disagreeable mission."

* * *

Kasan drifted in and out of consciousness as the young woman kneeling beside his cot stroked the angry burns upon his fingers and then let her long, slender fingers trail down his shoulders and across his back, physically pained by his suffering.

"You did well." The voice of General Apolinar's right hand was even, calm, and yet there was a warning in his eyes. "It is wise you did not form attachment in your task… The General would not be pleased. It would go harder for him." The man nodded slightly toward the prisoner, and Dwen stood and stepped back from Kasan's side. The man gave an almost imperceptible expression of approval, and disappeared again the way he'd come.

Dwen stood staring down at Kasan's scarred back, and shivered as through parched lips he whispered her name.

"…Dwen…are you…there? …Dw…Dwen…"

Silently she shook her head, backed a step, and finally stood with her hands over her eyes, unable to escape the truth of his agony or the depth of her own shame. Who could say which hurt the more, but only one was deserved, and she welcomed what was hers.


	21. The Traitor Returns

Three hours of sleep and as many cups of steaming brew had done their part to cut away fatigue from Basch's mind. While the clouds shuffled across the Archadian sky, revealing in slivers and shards a glistening touch of reemerging moonlight, Basch descended into the heavily fortified level where the assassin awaited his fate.

For a moment Gabranth stood outside the secured cell to watch the prisoner. Every visit Basch made found the prisoner the same, unmoved and unchanged. Despite his stark conditions and dim prospects, hour by hour he passed in stoic stillness. This one lacked the despair that Lukan had shown beneath his resignation.  
Basch recognized the dead expression as someone who had been conditioned against breaking under interrogation. They had planned for this day.

Basch felt uncharacteristically impatient. The sooner they could pinpoint the movement of the renegade, Meret Denali, the better.

…But then the fortress of the Denali good name would not be so easily assailed as a wall of stone.

Even if the man were to be quietly extricated from his homeland by means of stealth and careful planning… Even if Gabranth should lure the suspect into the steel embrace of Archadia… How easily might the family use this to turn opinion against the Empire-against Larsa…  
It would not help that Gabranth had himself approved the recent release.

Would the family rouse the people within their borders, or might they simply appeal to the Dalmascan crown, calling the capture an act of hostility by the Empire?

What would Ashe do?

No higher officer of the Law existed under the Emperor himself than that of Judge Magister.  
Basch considered the methods attributed to Gabranth in days past.  
What claim could be made by an enemy simply gone without a trace?  
No friend or kin would dare speak out, fearing Gabranth would strike again, and take with every covert assault a piece of their livelihood and reputation until they were destitute and ruined.  
They would fear what he knew; they would question their every step, until they fell into the trap set for them…

This strategy Basch rejected. Intimidation at the hand of the Emperor's always present guardian would not help to establish this new peace. By those actions not only the guilty would suffer. With them the innocent would return to fear, and hope would hide her face in doubt.

He would determine the facts and speak to the Lady…

For all concerned it would be best the newly crowned Queen of Dalmasca had a clear hand in settling this situation. It would be to the benefit of her rule that she establish to all her strength against rebellion inside her own borders. In accordance, Archadia must be seen to honor her authority within her own land. And yet the Empire must also retain influence and pride, and could not afford to turn a blind eye to those who meant to see them decayed and torn apart.

Together they would reach a solution, and show the world that the new alliance between Dalmasca and Archadia was strong.

A tinge of eagerness overturned his normal calm.  
Too long it had been…

Beneath his helm Basch's eyes softened and his lips gently turned, but then he sobered, returning his attention to the unpleasant reason he had come.

A gesture of the hand directed the guards to bring the intruder for yet another round of futile questioning.

The young man's black hair fell in waves along his scruffy face as he sat shackled at the table across from the Judge Magister. Basch spoke matter-of-factly. He knew he'd receive no reply.  
"Evit Lukan. Tully Savoy. And now you add your own life to the list of these who must die."  
The prisoner's face remained like stone, undaunted by the fearsome Judge Magister.

"Meret Denali deserts his men to face capture and awards their loyal service with death. And yet he did not judge death to be his own just reward when imprisoned these last years." Gabranth received no reaction to the revelation of Meret Denali's involvement.

"You would heap violence and invite death upon yourself for those who measure the worth of your life to be so small?" Still silence without fear or remorse.  
The prisoner might as well have already met death for all the emotion he surrendered.

Gabranth was himself silent a time, considering this next in the line of predator victims, and then offered quietly. "Your silence will gain you no more than came to the one who died at your hand."

The door opened and a guard hesitantly poked his head around. "Judge Magister?"  
Gabranth's head turned his way, and the guard cleared his throat nervously. "An urgent message, Your Honor."

The prisoner's eyes did not move as the Judge Magister turned and exited the interrogation chamber. He offered no resistance when the guards returned to pull him to his feet and escorted him back through the several layers of security and into his cell.

Basch recognized the soldier at once, though for the purpose of his mission the man was not dressed in the familiar armor of the Archadian Guard. Leading him away from the others and clear of the cell block, Gabranth turned, intent to hear the news. "You have word on Meret Denali's whereabouts?"

The soldier stared into the helmed visage of his commander as if afraid of the message he carried. "Your Honor…Meret Denali is dead, and Kasan Ranel has vanished."

Had Kasan Ranel struggled with Meret Denali over the conspiracy and conflict that had resulted in the wounding of Haleine Ranel?  
Had Meret Denali died at his hand?  
Had the artist fled?  
Where was he now?

These questions Basch asked himself, briskly walking a path through the Imperial gardens. He could feel the spray coming off the beautiful waterfall. With a strangely soothing roar it poured itself over the vine covered overhang to circulate through the crystal clear pools below. The environment was a careful balance of motion and constancy, of strength and restraint.

The morning had dawned beautifully, the last traces of heaven's tears dried in the wakening shimmer of light. False promise of softness and ease. Basch could feel the storm brewing behind cover of the smiling sky.

Gabranth removed the helm, holding it beneath one arm while the other hand absentmindedly attempted to manage his short blonde tresses into something akin to order.

He could see Larsa seated there, studiously pouring over what Basch knew must be his arguments for the Old Archades project. How much older he seemed than his years just now, weighed by the cloak of responsibility about his young shoulders…

"My Lord."

The young Emperor at once raised his eyes from the words before him to meet the concerned expression of his guardian. Well enough he had learned the moods of Basch fon Ronsenburg to recognize the import in his tone, and to read the tension in his long stride.

"Gabranth?" He was careful still here. Guards on patrol too had ears.

"I must speak with you at once. Larsa -"

"Your Grace! The Senate requests your presence for an emergency session!"

Larsa's eyes shot to Basch's face and saw the shared alarm there.  
The young leader nodded to the guard who had brought to them the news and stood immediately, gathering his notes from the granite top desk. "Of course. "  
To his guardian he said quietly, "Gabranth…?"

His thoughts had no need of being finished. The Judge Magister at his side restored the helm and spoke with quiet assurance, giving comfort and strength despite the concern he himself felt. "I am with you, Larsa. Come what may."

As Gabranth sheltered Larsa Solidor, Emperor of Archadia, from harassment upon entering the Senatorial chamber, one of the minor Judges fell in line behind. Gabranth knew him as a heralded pilot during the war years, a feared enemy of the Resistance…  
How many strikes had he made against their encampments?  
How many Dalmascan dead was he responsible for?  
Basch put the thought away.  
Oran was a loyal son of Archadia. He had served Gabranth well since his promotion to Judge at the end of the war.

The Senate floor was buzzing when Larsa made his entrance and then became suddenly silent as the young leader took his place. The eyes of his rivals were lit with excitement. They were pleased. The news could not be good for Larsa's cause.

Basch moved to follow Larsa, meaning to stand in his shadow to keep close watch.  
The minor Judge stepped into his peripheral vision, calling his attention away.  
Gabranth stepped back, and Judge Oran came to his side, holding his hand out in a gesture of apology. Gabranth's return signed the apology away.

"Judge Magister. My men are yet patrolling the skies."

Gabranth nodded, his concentration split between the Judge and their young Emperor.

"I took a hover off the airship to warn you. I see I am too late."

Basch gave Oran his full attention. "Explain." His voice, Gabranth's voice, was gruff.

The Judge thought nothing of his commander's manner. Always the men had counted Gabranth as dangerous and aloof. "Your Honor, Dalmasca is shutting down her borders-by force."

Gabranth was at once behind Larsa, dipping to whisper in his ear. Larsa's face turned upward, eyes widened with shock. The thrill in the atmosphere of the Senate swelled at the frozen expression on the young leader's face. But Larsa set his jaw and raised his chin, eyes hardening within his paled face.  
Basch felt a tremble of pain in his own spirit as Larsa stepped bravely forward. The young one would bear the malicious pleasure of this arrogant body who seemed, in his estimation, content to care for their own power above the good of their nation.

"…And here we find a problem. Archadia stands, arms open wide, ready to give above what is due, and our _friends _greet us with sword in hand."  
The Senator's face was arrogant, and Larsa's was increasingly troubled.  
"So- our _dear friend_ in _Dalmasca_ breaks the terms of our agreement, blocks our shipments, leaves our traders standing with spoiled goods at their borders! My lord, how can we think to address such things as the issue of _orphans_ and _Old Archades_ when this new threat is upon us?"  
The Senator feigned veneration for the young leader whom he addressed, but there was contempt in every part of his tone and gesture.

"This is an insult of the purest kind!" Another Senator spoke angrily, and a murmur of agreement arose from his colleagues.

"Dalmasca _talks_ of peace, but _this_ is not an _act_ of peace!" A clatter rose as hands pounded upon the heavy wooden railing that wound its way along the tiers of the Senatorial chamber.

Even the few Senators who had heretofore shown a willingness to work with their young leader now look to him with eyes of doubt and distrust.

Basch felt his chest tighten as the anger escalated, and his eyes moved to Larsa who stood, a small figure amid so many imposing. And still the young voice was strong.  
"Honored Ladies and Gentlemen of the Senate, let us exact the truth before we too rashly speak. Archadia's sovereignty and security is now, as it will always be, my first and foremost priority. To that end, I will meet with her Highness, Queen Ashelia in order to resolve this matter forthwith." His young voice was firm. "We will not sacrifice our state-nor abandon our friends."

The hallway leading away from the Senatorial chamber seemed miles long as Larsa walked with the Judge Magister at his side. The echo of armored boots and dress shoes rose with unusual loudness in their silence, reverberating off arched ceilings.

"One hour. Judicial Chambers. Alert Zargabaath." Gabranth's voice was a low growl as he passed by the lingering Judge, and Oran nodded and slipped quietly away, disappearing into the throng of Senators, their droning complaints like the hissing of a pit of snakes to Basch's ears.

The memory of the Senate's attack and the swift convergence of the Magistry was fresh in Basch's mind as he sat across from the young Emperor, their airship cutting a path through the blue sky.

With the minor Judges at his disposal, Judge Magister Zargabaath would oversee until the Emperor's return.

Basch frowned, remembering the officer's words as Zargabaath had held him back, waiting as Judge Oran and two others of his rank hastened to follow the directive of their commanders.

"_I was informed of the death of one Meret Denali. One wonders…if he so determined to die, might he have chosen a certain amount of subtlety? Such a conspicuous demise hardly seems appropriate in such a delicate time. …Do you not agree, Gabranth?"_ Zargabaath had spoken mildly, and yet, in the moment he turned toward the Gabranth, Basch saw these circumstances and his own part through the filter of the veteran's somber eyes.

Basch felt his chest tighten, now as then, and still the same he kept silent.

"I will not believe Queen Ashelia would so easily turn from friendship…" Larsa spoke softly to his guardian, worry, disappointment, and frustration on his face.

Truly the same notion stung Basch.  
Why had she not sent for him to sort out any misunderstanding before resorting to such strong tactics? What of their bond? Surely she knew he would give her whatever explanation she might seek…  
Why did she not seek out a private meeting with Larsa if there was any worry between their lands?  
Did she not remember all that Larsa too had lost?  
Why did he feel there was something more…  
"I take upon myself the full responsibility for this affair, my Lord."

"This is in no way your blame!" Larsa was emphatic as he leaned across the marble table between them. He added more softly. "The situation must be counted a misunderstanding. Together we will see it made right."

Basch watched as the young eyes, saddened and wistful, turned to look past the clouds and into the indefinite distance, as if seeing both the past and the future there.  
The Judge Magister followed his glance, knowing that from some high altitude vantage Judge Oran and his men were keeping watch on their flight as well as the border situation...on orders from their commanding officers, avoiding aggression...for now.

"It is no easy thing…escaping history's shroud. No matter how we reach, still the shadow clings. And yet…reach we must." Larsa spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

Basch watched the young man continue to stare through the glass, his voice soft and reflective. A gentle wave of affection and understanding moved Basch.

The name of Solidor was a heavy burden in its own right. Every deed that was Larsa's would be set against those of his lofty ancestors.  
In Larsa's lifetime, Gramis had led with iron strength and unwavering will, increasing by blood the borders of his land and the influence of his country.  
Vayne, unequalled strategist, had learned to speak the language of diplomacy and deceit more fluently than any recent history had known-the wolf in the guise of a lamb.  
Under their leadership the world of Ivalice had suffered, but Archadia had drawn a certain kind of dark respect. There were those who did not wish to turn from those days.  
Larsa, whose heart so desired to do right, must at every turn be confronted with the decisions of those whose steps he followed. Not every building block could be removed without tearing down what he meant to build. The past was ingrained in the very foundation of the land.  
There were scars that would remain. There were truths that would endure.  
Larsa did all he could to contend with the past, and yet he would never fully escape…  
It carried on in his name, in his face, and every night he must lay his head upon the bed that his father had made.

Already this responsibility aged the boy. Such a weight would either strengthen or break him ere he became a man. …It must not be allowed to break him.

"_Look after Larsa, will you?..."_

Noah's voice had strained, broken as he fought for words through suffering and weariness. Desperation had brought his eyes to Basch's face, and no pride or pain between them had kept him from entreating for the young one's safe-keep. _"…Protect him. I would entrust him to no other's care."_

Lonely longing returned, and Basch turned his face to keep the feeling at bay. He must not consider that his brother's demise had left him with the solitude he for so long had claimed but never fully known. Still there were times when, even wearing the garb of Gabranth, Basch found it difficult to believe Noah's strong spirit had left this world. Involuntarily there were moments he woke to find himself looking to the horizon as when he was a boy newly gone from home…the presence of his twin still resonating within his solitary soul. Then they were separated by time and miles, now by eternity.

"Don't let it worry you, Basch. We will settle this, and revisit the matter of our friends in Old Archades when the confusion is past." Larsa could not hide from his friend that he was disheartened, but he was resolved.

Basch watched him with gentle affection. "I do not doubt." Kind-hearted and noble of spirit was this young leader. His brother's words again resounded in his memory. _"…Lord Larsa is our last hope."_

Basch was resolved. In the battle for hope, Larsa would not lose.

Larsa turned solemn eyes to his guardian, as if the warrior's thoughts were sensed, and gave a smile that showed his sincerest gratitude.

"_Yes, Noah… He is a good master," _the spirit of brotherhood whispered across the divide_.  
_And more, he is a beloved charge, the guardian's heart ached.

Basch would do all within his power to reconcile this grievance between their countries so that the interruption need be only an insignificant footnote and not the cause of irreparable harm.  
He would do this for Larsa and the Empire…for Ashe and Dalmasca…for all who had fought and died…for all who yet lived and hoped across this Ivalice.

"Lord Emperor, Your Honor, we arrive." The soldier appeared to give word, nodded his respects to each, and disappeared as quickly.

Basch suddenly felt a shiver of cold and flash of heat.  
This is how he would return to Dalmasca and into the presence the Queen.  
Not as Basch fon Ronsenburg, Captain of Dalmasca, but as Gabranth, Judge Magister of Archadia.  
Not only this, he returned to argue the Empire's case before the one he'd protected against the same. And he would do so wearing the face of the Kingslayer.

Basch looked to Larsa, who pressed his armored hand, giving and taking reassurance.  
The guardian steeled his resolve. Larsa needed him, now more than ever in his days as Gabranth.  
Basch would give all that he had to give in this cause.

The gentle bump signaled the pilot's expert landing. It was time.

Daylight entered. The escort guard lined the exit as their leader and commander passed.

The racing beat of Basch's heart drowned out all else as it thumped out the tune…  
…Basch fon Ronsenburg returns…

* * *

She rested her body on the uneven earth, covering them both with the threadbare blanket she had stolen for him, cradling him close in her arms. He would be safe there…

Kasan awakened to the damp darkness of cave walls and clay floors, with the caressing touch of fingers upon his skin. His eyes did their best to adjust to the darkness.  
In the strange glow that fell over his shoulder he could just make out a small reptilian creature scurrying across the rock, stopping to flick its tongue and blink its eyes before darting into a tiny crevice and disappearing from view.  
He could see a trickle of water running down the wall, staining the rock in its path a darker shade than before.  
His eyes blurred, the rocky surface of the floor pained his injured body, and he groaned. "Wh-"

"Shh…" Dwen leaned over his shoulder. Her fingertips seemed to be emitting radiance.

His mind could not comprehend…Where was he? How had he come to be here? Why was Dwen with him? Had not she taken her leave just before… _"Gabranth!"_

Her voice was soft but stern. "Quiet, Kasan."

"Hm?" Her touch seemed both to burn and freeze. It calmed him and caused him to shudder… Sharpened his mind and stole his thoughts…

Dwen was leaning over him, her violet eyes bright like a sparkling gem, but tumultuous with conflicted emotion. "Heed me, Kasan! You must be silent…. Don't let them know you are getting stronger. Don't let them know you are even awake!"

"Okay." The word was just a breath, and Kasan closed his swimming eyes. This must be a dream. And whatever meaning the vision had for him, it could wait. He was too tired...

Dwen watched him resign to oblivion. One hand at a time, she intently ran her fingers over his, as she had his back, spending time on each seared place. Then she carefully covered him with a thin blanket and furtively made her way from the cavern.

The guard that she had blindsided in order to gain access to Kasan lay bound and unconscious in the next darkened hole. She considered loosing his bonds and slipping away without giving him an opportunity to identify his assailant.  
It would not go well for the soldier if he was discovered in that state.  
Dwen could not spare the pity.  
Her thought was only for what use this soldier might prove to her.

She crouched beside him, he was not much beyond a boy really, and patted his cheek until his dark eyes blinked in startled realization and then widened in fear.

"Yes, you know what will happen if they find that you have failed." She warned him softly. "So do as I ask, and perhaps you and yours may yet live."


	22. Behold, the Kingslayer

The path to the Throne Room was lined by Castle Knights in full ceremonial armor, but the guard who barred their way had about him the look of war. He glared menacingly at the ominous Judge Magister, sword drawn defensively, aggressive in his protection of Dalmasca's Lady against a rival. For the leader of the great Empire he had no special regard.

An undefined sensation passed through Basch as he stood blocked as an enemy from where once he was accepted as a friend with open arms, and where once those inside had looked to _him_ for protection...

The doors parted and a Captain of the Castle Knights emerged.  
A look passed between the two young men, and the guard moved to allow the Archadians entry.  
The Captain bowed courteously to the Emperor and his guardian, and yet Basch took note that his hand never left his sword.

And there she stood...Dalmasca's Lady herself...Ashe...

"Lord Larsa. ...Judge Magister Gabranth." She was turned, seemingly preoccupied with examining something indefinite across the room, so that her guests were visible to her from a peripheral view while her own face was hidden to them. "Is this a _personal_ visit?" Her tone and manner said already that she knew otherwise, as Basch knew with certainty that she did.

"My lady," Larsa began. "It has come to my attention that there is a roadblock between us. I have come to see it removed."

"Then you will accept _my_ terms." Her voice carried a bold stroke of defiance, and Basch found himself frustrated.

"Do you throw away all we have worked for?" His voice, _Gabranth's voice_, was rougher, more pained than was intended, and she turned stiffly to face him.

"You are too familiar, _Judge Magister_. Remove the mask if you wish to address me in this place."  
Through the rebuke, her voice was carefully devoid of emotion, cool and even.

Basch took the helm from his head, and held it beneath his arm.  
Ashe's eyes studied his face as if reading a book full of deep mysteries.  
Basch felt exposed, uncomfortable, unsettled...

"You may go, Jaiger."  
The Queen dismissed her Captain without glancing his way, and the young man flushed, pride wounded. His eyes were hard on the Judge Magister's face as he passed.  
Still he obeyed, the sound of his steps becoming ever more muted until the door shut behind him and silenced them altogether.

Basch felt a touch of pity for the young man. He understood the difficulties of the position and the weight of responsibility he carried... Once the burden, and the honor, had been his...  
Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca was strong, spirited, and sometimes..._difficult_.  
Hopefully the young man had allies.

...How long had he and Vossler served together, even before he'd made Captain?  
In the new life he'd made he had also found a surrogate family of a kind.  
Vossler had become as near a brother as any could in place of the one who held first claim.  
And, like the other, he'd been left to fall in the cause of duty when their paths had divided...  
Whatever had come, Vossler's love of Dalmasca would never be questioned by Basch.  
The knowledge of his friend's demise pained him still.

Larsa glanced toward his guardian and saw loss writ plainly there. Sadness filled the young leader.  
It was perhaps too much to ask of Basch that he should return without regret, standing at the side of the Empire and not beside the Throne-an honor that was certainly due him. The young Lord felt keenly protective of the man at his side.

"We are alone. You may speak freely." Ashe retired to her throne as if to remind them of where they were and of whose hand held the power in this place.

Larsa's voice was soft but direct as he approached the stern young Queen. "My lady, Archadia must protect her own security in as much as Dalmasca. We would not ask _you_ to compromise the safety of your Kingdom. Surely you would not ask this of the Empire. And yet your actions compromise _us_ in a very delicate time."

"The Empire's debts to Dalmasca are outstanding. Dalmasca simply wishes to balance the scales." The Lady's voice was cold, her demeanor unchanged by her ally's entreaty.

"Lady Ashelia, please! Together we embark upon a new era! A time of hope! Do not wish us back into darkness! This contention hurts us both, and our people with us! Have they not suffered enough?" Larsa entreated with such genuine care that no heart should have been unmoved, and yet the young Queen did not appear affected.

Ashe ran her fingers over the ornate arm rests, and turned steeled eyes upon Larsa Solidor. "All these words... I am surprised you do not use them to ask a trade."

Basch's eyes narrowed slightly. What was this?  
Larsa also seemed unsure. He blinked once and was silent.

Ashe's lips turned slightly, but the smile held no kindness. Was that a mocking glint in her eye?  
Her manner was hard, and Basch was unsettled.

Basch moved a step closer to Larsa. His reaction was to protect Larsa, but his heart begged Ashe to prove to him there was no need, and so ease this undesired conflict. "My lady...I-I don't understand."

Ashe met his eyes, hers were hard, and pressed her finger to a hidden lever.  
At once the doors were opened, and the young Captain came, followed by three guards with swords bared. "Your Highness."

"Bring your prisoner."

The soldiers turned in mid-stride and were gone.

If some ill spell had turned the Lady of flesh and blood to stone she could not have been etched of any harder substance. She stared past her guests, and they stood frozen, waiting-for _what_ they did not understand.

Silence overtook the chamber until the doors again parted and the group of guards reappeared, led by their Captain, jostling a chained and hooded figure between them.

Suddenly Ashelia stood, her eyes ablaze, a scarlet flush upon each cheek.

The reason for the young Queen's behavior was lost on both Larsa Solidor and his guardian.  
Larsa looked to Basch, and Basch was frustrated with his own failing.

Almost Basch expected to see Kasan Ranel bound and chained.  
Ashe would not bring such fierce resistance to the Empire over conflict between two of their respective citizens...would she? He was confounded by her...  
And in any case, though both were tall and strongly built, this man had not the frame of Kasan Ranel.  
Could it be an Archadian spy, perhaps left over from the war? Without guidance from his commander, could it be the agent had abused the new trust? What bloody deeds could give rise to such treatment at Ashe's hands? Yet again Basch wished he knew more of his brother's secrets.

The soldiers stopped. The Captain removed the hood and stepped back. Another, the one who had denied their initial access, roughly shoved the black haired man to a place of submission on the floor before the throne.  
The image of the unnamed assassin in the Archadian cell flashed before Basch's eyes. Was the man here before them part of a greater conspiracy?

And then the prisoner lifted his head slightly, turning gray-blue eyes to Basch's face.

The breath caught in Basch's throat. His heart paused and the pounding beat changed its song as the Judge Magister peered through the unfamiliar tresses partially obscuring the prisoner's face.

"Look! My Knights have brought me a _ghost_!" Ashe's voice was triumphant, her hand held out regally as if in proclamation. "A well kept secret, I allow, but a secret no longer..." She touched a well-groomed finger to her lips. Her words were a dark accusation that none could answer.

_"Gabranth?"_ It was Larsa's voice, and to any else it would seem that he addressed the Judge at his side, but Basch released the breath he'd been holding, and took a step toward the bound form.

_Noah? _His eyes deceived him... It was an illusion... This man... It could not be...  
Already his heart had given him answer, but his mind could not grasp the reality...

Basch had witnessed as Noah, already wounded from their own conflict, was tossed helplessly against the unforgiving stone by Venat. He had felt his brother falter beneath the strike of a blade in his own hand...seen him fall to his knees... Had gone to him at last, lying there broken by Vayne's unnatural power, and sat with him as he breathed his last...clasping the hand that could no longer hold his...

Noah was gone.  
And yet...

"Noah...?" The name slipped almost silently from his lips. The feel of it was both familiar and foreign on his tongue.

Noah saw the shock in Basch's eyes, and suddenly his blood ran cold. ..._His brother had not known..._

"Leave us." Ashe waved back the guards, and her Captain's face darkened.  
He moved to go, but his Queen called, without turning her eyes his way, "Jaiger. Stay."

"Your Majesty." His face lightened, and he quietly withdrew to the shadows behind the throne.

Noah turned his eyes to look past the Judge to the smaller figure at his side, and found the same surprise and disbelief there as seen in the face of Basch. Tarachande had lied.  
Noah dropped his eyes in shame, and in judging himself found another truth...  
He had _let_ the old man lie, because the lie had been comforting.  
And now this conflict, this division, this difficulty that fell upon Basch and young lord Larsa belonged solely to him.

Larsa turned to Ashe, concern winning out over surprise. Worry lay heavy in his eyes.  
"Pray, my lady, have him loosed. Let all responsibility fall on me."

The prisoner flinched slightly at the kindhearted words while Basch looked on through a stunned haze.

Without call came the memories.  
_"Hang on, Basch!"  
Desperately holding on for dear life, to one another and to the neck of the angry Chocobo...  
"Whoa! Noah, look out!"  
Suddenly hanging upside down...voices ringing in a thunderous duet...the willful creature spitefully dragging them through the only thorn bush for miles...  
They'd spent the next hour plucking barbs from each other's bare hide to be spared the embarrassment of going home in such a state_.  
_They had been sore for days...  
But at the first opportunity had dared another attempt.  
Life with his brother had been an adventure..._  
Sentiment and affection flared as Basch's mind accepted the verdict of his heart...His brother lived!

A smile began to warm Basch's eyes and lips.

And then caution tempered gladness.

By what course did Noah live, and for what purpose?  
Why had he kept silent?  
Why had he kept himself apart?  
Why the changed appearance?  
What had brought him to Ashe's keep to be held now in chains?  
Was this treatment given on behalf of crimes old or new?  
Might it be wise to explore the truth first before surrendering trust?  
Larsa's safety...Ashe's safety...the peace between their lands came first.

Noah was watching as the shields of defense behind Basch's eyes, shaken for a moment by the shock of his appearing, reengaged. He turned his own eyes away.

"No. I will not have him loosed! Beyond this man's sins against me, of which you are well aware, there is new transgression. He has _murdered _Meret Denali! Dalmasca's honored citizen, only just released from wrongful imprisonment and returned to his family, now dead at the hand of the Empire's _hireling_ son?"

Basch winced. Archadian blood mingled in their veins. Dalmasca, however, had truly been Basch's adopted land. Never had it seemed she had felt his service less for it...

"Justice is overdue. Payment must be settled." She paused and her eyes glinted dangerously as they flitted past Basch to Larsa and then rested on the prisoner. "So-shall it be done _here_ and _now_?"  
Ashe motioned toward her Captain, who drew his sword and stepped toward Noah with grim intent.

"Stop this!" Larsa's heated indignation resounded throughout the large space.  
The young Captain paused to look to his Queen for further instruction. Ashe almost imperceptivity raised her slender fingers, and the Captain stopped.

If Basch had been watching he would have empathized with the relief in the young Captain's eyes, but he could only stand in shocked horror as he watched this new nightmare unfold.

Noah's eyes were desperately on Basch's, and his lips moved silently, _"Take him! Take him!"_

Basch understood. _Get Larsa away! Don't make him endure this scene!  
_At once he unfroze and went to Larsa's side, meaning to pull him gently away, but Larsa would not be moved.

"_Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca!_ Cease this _at once!_ Will you use manipulation and threat to force your will? Is _this_ the peace we have claimed? I _will not_ have it!" Bold defiance and wrath, infused with the authority of his position, caused Larsa's voice to carry sharply. In that instant he was a boy no longer.

The Queen's eyes narrowed and her fists clenched. "You ask me to forgive _murder_ for the sake of your friendship? Or could it be that this act was carried out with your knowledge and on your command, _my lord Emperor_?" Every word was a threat, a challenge.

"Your hatred is for _me_, Lady Ashe." Noah reacted instinctively in defense of Larsa, straining against his bonds.

_"Silence!"_ Ashe was trembling as she addressed the captive, and Larsa gently lifted a quieting hand toward his former guardian. Noah felt again a rush of shame. Larsa was capable and otherwise cared for. He need not make things worse by his hasty tongue.

"My lady...The matter of Meret Denali is not altogether as it may seem..." Basch offered quietly.

Noah's eyes returned to his brother's face in question.

"You defend him?" A touch of hurt flashed through Ashe's eyes, but she quickly sealed true feelings from discovery. "But then, you _are_ Judge Magister Gabranth."

The prisoner saw the Judge Magister's face pale and his brow darken his eyes. The words were sharp and Basch was wounded. Noah settled his gaze on the floor.

"Take the murderer back to his cage." Ashe directed her Captain brusquely, and Jaiger brought the prisoner to his feet and moved him toward the door.

Larsa was made solemn by his once protector's plight. He stepped to face the warrior Queen, his face bravely fixed, undeterred.

Basch watched the Lady Ashe return to the gilded throne, and felt in her smoldering wrath the cold touch of despair.  
He looked to his brother's face as he passed with stumbling steps, not knowing what he would find...not knowing what he wished to find...still somewhat unable to comprehend the wonder that Noah could truly be alive.  
Noah refused to look his way. His jaw was tense and his eyes were downcast, and Basch turned his own sight grimly toward some indefinite spot between Larsa and the throne.

Jaiger retraced his steps, the prisoner's hindered gait bringing them more than once to a halt. The young Captain was wary with confusion, determined only to defend his Queen against whatever the threat might be.

He returned the prisoner to his enclosure, and directed guards to trade the one set of bonds for another.

Given just enough room to stand beside or retire to the cot, Noah chose the latter. He was physically exhausted, emotionally battered, and had given up trying to preserve any semblance of pride and strength before the young Captain who had seen him otherwise. It mattered little now.

The Captain did not follow the other guard from the cell. Instead he stood thoughtfully looking toward the prisoner with troubled, reflective eyes.

"Here." Jaiger held out a canteen of water, and Noah did not refuse the offering.

Noah felt the young man's watchful gaze and returned the silent stare.  
What did the Dalmascan think of what he'd seen and heard?  
He swallowed the lukewarm liquid, wiped the droplets that escaped with the back of his hand, and held out the flask to the Captain.

Jaiger took it without a word, stood watching him with an unhappy frown, and finally spoke quietly. "Who are you?"

"The Kingslayer."

Noah's simple answer left Jaiger disgruntled.

Noah was silent and grave, uncertain what other answer was his to give.

The two continued to watch one another, and finally Jaiger looked away.

"What of Meret Denali? Why did you murder him?"

"Meret Denali was a direct threat not only to the Empire, but also to _your_ country's throne and the acclaimed person of your beloved _Lady_. I wonder that _you_ did not deal with him. I wonder that you do not deal now with his allies." Noah redirected without giving confession.

"So you would have me believe you killed this man to protect my Queen whose throne you have once yourself destroyed?" Jaiger's eyes showed his disbelief, and he moved toward the cell door as if to put an end to the lies by leaving.

"Not at all." Noah admitted dryly.

"Perhaps I should ask, if Meret Denali posed such a danger to us all, why the Empire let such a threat walk free." Jaiger again watched Noah closely.

"...Perhaps you should ask the Judge Magister." Noah's tone changed, becoming less sharp with wit and increasingly deliberate and careful.  
Truth be told, the Captain's question was something he would himself like to ask of Basch...  
But perhaps in not knowing his brother's mind he had the answer.  
He put the thought away and asked a question of his own.  
"What became of Kasan Ranel?"

Jaiger's eyes turned away, and there was dissatisfaction written on his features.

"He is alive?" Noah persisted, and Jaiger looked at him wryly as if to consider which of them was conducting the questioning.

"The truth of it has not yet been uncovered..." He admitted quietly after a pause.

"There was found no body?" Noah was tense, and Jaiger serious.

"No."

"Dimas Apolinar-"

"Is a guest." Jaiger coolly reminded the prisoner.

"Dimas Apolinar is your enemy." Noah was blunt. "If he has taken Kasan Ranel-"

"You put the word of the Kingslayer against that of a General of Rozarria here on a diplomatic mission-with no proof to substantiate." Jaiger laid out the difficulty of the argument, and rubbed the bridge between his eyes before continuing slowly. "And...Kasan Ranel is not a citizen of Dalmasca..."

Noah scowled darkly, and Jaiger sighed deeply, his expression showing his own distaste for the words.

Long moments passed before the young man's eyes returned to the prisoner.  
"I cannot help but notice..." Jaiger stumbled and changed course. "The Judge Magister..." He bit his lip and ran his hand over his eyes before continuing in a hushed tone.  
"...You _are_ Basch fon Ronsenburg...are you not?"

Noah saw in the young soldier's eyes the wistful desire to believe still somehow in Dalmasca's once extolled Champion and now disparaged Traitor.

There was no reply and Jaiger frowned and turned away, irritated and bothered by the saddened sympathy he saw in the prisoner's eyes.

Footsteps brought the Captain's attention away, and Drystan appeared at the cage door.  
"Her Majesty asks for you."

Jaiger looked soberly down at the captive before turning to the guard.  
"See that the prisoner is fed, Drystan. It may be his last meal."

* * *

A supper of rice and steamed vegetables sat untouched before the boy.  
"What has happened to him? Why does he not return?" Faolyn's paled eyes stared up at the old man with intense worry and concern.

The old man groaned inwardly, taking a bite of his own meal to stall an answer. True he'd become almost used to, sometimes thankful for, this man who had disturbed their peace. And yet still there was the same old question...why could not a more docile individual than that infernal warrior have bonded with the boy? And again there came the answer, at least in part...  
The timid and mild were unlikely to be able to withstand the turbulent spirit of this complicated child.  
Many were the days the old man wondered about himself, and heaven knew he had never been meek or passive of nature.  
But between keeping step with the boy, and now track of this troublesome man, it was enough to make an old man feel his age!

"I believe he has been _invited_ for a stay in Dalmasca..." Tarachande remembered how he'd seen the guards confronting their boarder. The boy had been too unsettled and wishful of escaping the strange atmosphere hanging over the region to see. Thankfully. The old man did not wish to know what might have passed if the boy had noted his guardian in peril.  
There were strange things at work with the boy...

The ghastly wound upon his hand was now fully healed as if it had never been...  
The young feet had all but flown homeward...  
The boy's strong grip, pulling him along behind, had left a bruise upon the old man's wrist...

"Arrested?" Anger hardened Faolyn's features and sharpened his tone.

Tarachande sighed, and rubbed his tired eyes. If only the boy was more easily deceived. But he was not as young as once he had been...  
Sadness touched the old man's heart. It was true. The boy, though yet young, was a little child no longer. It was something to remember for the future. But then the lad always had been astute.  
"I imagine they needed to ask some questions. When the matter is resolved, I'm certain he'll find his way back." ...Perhaps he'd simply kill all the guard and make his escape, the old man considered starkly.

"We must go to Dalmasca. We must help him!" Faolyn's passion in this cause should not have surprised the old man, and yet he was caught off guard. No! Of course they couldn't go to Dalmasca, traipsing after that man! Ridiculous!

"Child, listen to me. This is not a matter for boys and old men. Let your protector deal with this as he must. We will wait."

"No! We cannot wait! He needs us!" Faolyn's eyes sparked, and the old man nervously pursed his lips.

"Faolyn..."

"Then I will go alone!" Faolyn pushed his chair back so violently that it fell to the floor, leaving him standing with fists clenched at the table.

Such defiance and independence was budding in a boy who had not so long past hidden in his room whenever any merchant chanced to stop along their path. Only now he had dared, under the protection of this man, to journey to the festival! And from that place the boy had fled as if his feet were aflame. Now he thought he would take himself, alone, to Rabanastre?

And yet here was the trouble with growing old...  
Tarachande was unused to being challenged, but how truly could he contend with the boy if he had his mind set? This is where one of greater virility would be found useful.  
Possibly they should go...Not because the man needed their aid, but because they needed his...  
Perhaps the wild stallion could help to rein in the young colt...

* * *

Zol cackled heartily as he plopped down on a mat outside the rundown shack that he called castle.  
His big belly shook with glee.  
Yeh, yeh, Biddie was still grumbling at him from inside, calling him a lazy, good-for-nothing again.  
Eh, but she didn't mean it none.  
Zol had seen that special look in her eye when he had given her the treasure! She was plenty pleased! Pleased enough not to nag him about staying clear of the pub and getting some decent grub for a change.  
Oh sure, she'd socked him one when he gave it to her. And she'd done her insultin' best...askin' where he done stole it, and if'n the guards or that big hunter was gonna be takin' it away.  
But she didn't care all that much when he made up his lie. And she could always tell.  
Yep, Zol had done good! And it wasn't even much like thievin'...after all, it weren't Zol's fault the Hume wasn't there mindin' his things...  
His beautiful Biddie was lookin' at him real sweet tonight...

At the sudden thought of an evening with his amorous mate, Zol grimaced and his chuckles stopped. As quietly as he could he hauled his carcass up off the mat, tried to tame his clomping gait into a muted shuffle, and tripped over a scattering of garbage...

Biddie heard the ruckus and came rushing out the door, waving a rolling pin like a sword. "Zol! You get back here!"

Zol heaved himself to his feet, abandoned his attempt to tiptoe, and rushed, with a chaotic lope, to make his escape.

Biddie frowned and glared and muttered and mumbled to his vanishing shadow, but when he was gone from sight she lowered the rolling pin and dropped her angry façade. Laughing, her meaty jowls turned to a wide beam as she plodded back toward her door, fingering possessively the delicate chain of red stones, fastened onto the front of her belt...


	23. Masquerade

Alone in her chambers she stood, save for the servants who helped their mistress to dress, swept back her soft hair, and added royal adornments about her neck and wrists.  
The attendants examined her costume and person vigilantly. Through eyes of awe they viewed her in the light of perfection. As they did so, Ashe examined her place, this day, and her own heart with an unforgiving scale.

Always she had been groomed in the ways and duties of royalty.  
But not by merely surviving to become heir to her father's throne, nor by marriage to her late Prince, Rasler Heios Nabradia, had she become the one she was today, though these had helped to set the stage.

Distractedly Ashe stroked the band upon her left hand. The motion was not undetected by the attentive eyes of her servants who harbored silent sympathy for their young widowed Queen.  
Yes, love and duty had raised her to crave honor and prosperity for Dalmasca. But death of those she loved, and her Kingdom's broken descent had brought her with a hard fist to this place of strength and duty.

The years since the death of Rasler and her father may have been brief, but they had been compounded in strenuous demand. Hardship and struggle had tried her spirit and tested her will, but she could say she had not relented.

Displaced and cast down, release from grief and a vessel for rage was to be found in knowing that she played a direct part in effecting the outcome of her people. That she, even in the secret guise of Amalia, might lead her people boldly amid the shadows and ruin. That she might go rushing to the fight, wielding the blade and willing to lay down her life, and so shape destiny with her own hand.

Still her soldiers she sent out, swords bared, to do her bidding. But here she remained to be suited and groomed, readied for the theater of diplomacy-the new battleground.

Victory had not brought respite from duty and obligation but added to it. And still, though the weight of her place lay on her heart like an iron hand, she would not now surrender her spirit or her will.

In the closed court of her own mind Ashe could almost privately confess that by hurt and anger she had wounded her own cause in the matter of diplomacy with the Empire.  
It was action she would have to find well-enough reason to right before the citizens of Dalmasca were made to suffer for her injured petulance. And she would. For this was her place, by fortune or by fate. …Or perhaps because, when the task had fallen to her, she had staked her claim defiantly and been unwilling that any, even the Occuria, wrest it from her hand.

She would not shirk from any trial before her. For the good of her people she must at all times be resolved, silent and strong…as always _he_ had been…

She smiled slightly, but with such grim melancholy that those who saw to her care cast wary glances one to the other, and were careful not to break the spell. Almost untouchable she seemed in her solitary. The holy martyr. The righteous warrior.  
And those who looked upon her were not wishful of disturbing the concentration of their pristine Lady.

Ashe was oblivious to their study or their consideration, her thoughts elsewhere…

The brazen act at the border had done as it was meant and brought the one pride would not allow her to call, so that perhaps she might discover reason for these things she could not explain…

Through all Ashe had maintained the armor of her pride, fueled by the rage of meeting again her father's murderer, and anguished by the thought of treachery at the hand of one so trusted. Yet beneath this her heart was not immune to the pain and sorrow that had flamed so strongly in those familiar eyes.  
The pain of the one who had once stood at her side had struck her with a power fiercer than her defenses, and the anger that had once covered hurt had been called upon to shield her from revealing sorrow-for his sake.

She had watched as shock and disbelief had widened his blue eyes. And although her pride had demanded she question whether the surprise came only in knowing the Archadian scheme had been uncovered, her spirit knew that he was as taken back as she by the return of his dark reflection.

The quarrel between the woman and the Queen turned her head toward the balcony.  
Though here she stood, two spacious rooms away, it was as if she could look past the fortifications into the warm air and see through time…

How many years had Sir Basch fon Ronsenburg walked these halls?  
How long had he stood in her father's presence as a trusted Captain and protector of the royal family?  
The young, blonde Captain with reserved blue eyes had kept close watch for her safekeeping long before she had understood the need-or the sacrifice.  
The people had looked to him with admiration. Though he had not come _from_ them, they recognized _in_ him the will to survive and the desire to tear down the darkness in hopes of building a brighter day.  
In this way, his story was theirs.  
Reticent by nature, he had nonetheless seemed to thrive in the knowledge of this solidarity of spirit.  
Joined to them from the shadowed ruins of his own land, they had come to call him their own, holding him up in high honor.  
It was no wonder the Empire had turned their sights upon Dalmasca's adopted son…  
Though the other had brought an end to the heartbeat of her King father, it was the lie of betrayal at the hands of such a one as Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg which had driven a dagger into the heart of her people.  
A slain liege… A fallen hero… A disillusioned people… A scattered peace…

By one man's name so much good and ill had come to her kingdom.  
And there now the one she trusted stood…at the side of another…in the armor of the Kingslayer…

What of the Kingslayer? Her spirit had quieted just enough to allow the question to rise…  
For what purpose did he live and make his way to the outskirts of Dalmasca, concealed?  
What of the murdered Dalmascan citizen…  
A frown creased her brow, and one of her maids, under pretense of catching a stray strand of hair, sought to smooth the lines away.

The Denali family had already sent a representative to ascertain from the Crown whether the reports of a suspect taken were indeed true. They were most insistent, and their rights were valid.  
…Why had she sent them away unsatisfied, with only a pledge that the Throne would see a resolution?

What of the words Basch had so carefully spoken before she had called for her Captain to expel her enemy from her sight…

And what of Larsa, the child heir to bloody House Solidor?

His pleas had seemed sincere. His eyes were yet wide and innocent.  
And yet it could not be missed in his thinning face…He was becoming slightly more a man...and somewhat more akin in image to Vayne.  
Vayne…who by grand aspirations had sought to crush her land and claim its bounty like one who picks a rare flower from a neighbor's garden and tramps the rest underfoot…  
Larsa in all ways emitted the essence of honesty, and, when she allowed herself the benefit of perspective, it was truly difficult to believe him otherwise.  
…But then Vayne had not been seen for his true self by most.  
Could she be certain that Larsa's innocent eyes did not cover some darker ambition?  
Could she be assured that Larsa's decision to stand against his brother meant an end to all cloaked aggressions, and was not merely an arrangement by which the young heir was left standing?  
Was it possible to think Larsa Solidor had sent the Kingslayer here, without Basch's knowledge, for the dark intent of renewed deceit and violence?

Was it possible that Basch was again made a pawn in their game?

After all this...surely he would not be thus deceived…  
Surely…after all this…he would not now betray the hope they for so long had sought…

Even though anger and hurt had condemned him, her heart had reserved the right to disbelieve her own judgment.

Basch had been willing to trade swords with his brother for her sake.

Still…she had seen now in that serious face a glimpse of boyish thrill at this latest revelation of _the other. _The strong feeling she had witnessed in those blue orbs had moved her, far more deeply than she would allow to be seen. And yet in frustration she wondered that he could yet harbor tenderness for this blood stained echo that had so misused his name and wounded their people!

And then she remembered the cloak that had fallen to extinguish the fire of excitement.  
Glad she had been to see the soldier rise to put away such things.

His sacrifice was as hers should be. She must grasp the strength to put away those affections that would make her weak, enslaving her to emotion when she must think clearly and act without doubt.

There were things which must be settled. Terms met and conditions set.  
She must be unwavering. She would not resign her kingdom and her crown to the whim of the Empire.

Tonight the Rozarrian delegation would attend a gathering here at the castle.  
After they had gone…then she would hear what Larsa Solidor and…and his Judge Magister had to say…

Her maids completed their task, bowing to their regal Queen as she dismissed them silently.

Ashe walked slowly to the balcony, various lengths of sheer lace and silk panels gracefully moving in tune to her body's rhythm, whispering against her armored calves.  
A play of evening desert light shimmered against the jewels woven into her hair. A prism of color, like a rainbow breaking through darkened clouds, was captured in her gray eyes.

She looked down, watching a small band of soldiers riding off on Chocobo mounts.  
It would not be difficult to imagine Basch among them, proudly wearing the colors of the Kingdom upon Dalmascan armor…  
It would not be difficult to imagine that she would join the company, riding out at the lead, the wind in her hair, her own sword lifted like a banner high…

Ashe pressed together her eyelids, softly dusted with pale lilac, and dispelled the visions that rose before her eyes. When she opened them again they seemed set in steel.  
She straightened her shoulders, pulled herself to full height, and turned to where the woman and the leader meet.  
And like a specter of legend, a breath of a dream, to rise to face the moment at hand, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, Queen.

--------------------------------------------

Larsa rested in the spacious private quarters to which they had been escorted by the young Captain. He was guarded by two Archadian soldiers who had left the airship to join the Judge Magister in overseeing the young Emperor's care. Basch was unwilling to leave his charge unprotected…even here…even within these familiar walls.

And there was something he must do…

The Dalmascan guards watched the Archadian Judge Magister through narrowed eyes of suspicion as he walked the Castle halls as one who knew the way. But none dared impede him until he entered the passage leading into the shadowy hollow of the dungeon reserved for prisoners of note.

The angled conclusion of a startling two-edged blade, viciously serrated along one edge and honed to a razor sharpness along the other, was suddenly across the Judge Magister's path, abruptly hindering his way.  
A tall figure obscured within a tracker's cloak followed the blade into view, with the free hand taking down his hood to reveal a wild shock of uneven russet spikes. The face was young but lean and the jaw was hard beneath a layer of scruff. His hazel eyes had the look of one who has been tested. He was unyielding, unimpressed with the Elite Archadian warrior. Instead he looked the Judge Magister over with contemptuous eyes under a lowered brow and a disdainful smirk.

Basch recognized this soldier at once as the one who had stood in their way before the Throne Room.  
As Judge Magister Gabranth he was frustrated. It would have been best he had met with another more pliable and more easily awed guard.  
…And yet another part of him was pleased…  
After all, if the Castle was yet his responsibility he would ask for no less than such vigilance from the knights that served the Queen.  
…And always he would hope this for her…

"I demand the right to question the prisoner."

The words of the Judge Magister carried down the passage, reverberating against the stone.

Noah's eyes opened wide, startled to hear his own voice in his ears. And then the sight of bars and the feel of chains reminded him of the truth of the situation. He waited, listening, wondering at this twist that had seen his and Basch's lives and fates exchanged.

The guard they called Wulf intended to turn Basch away, and Noah struggled to pretend he cared not either way. But yet his ears strained and his heart raced. He was eager but reluctant, filled with the irony that he and his brother should here meet…in this place, in this way.

"What _right_ do _you_ have to claim?!" Wulf challenged, and behind his mask Basch frowned, both exasperated with and comforted by this soldier's aggression.

"What is it, Wulf?" Another voice interrupted, and the young Captain appeared behind his comrade. His dark eyes were piercing as he stared into the helmed face of the Judge Magister.

"Wants to talk to the Kingslayer." Wulf nodded roughly toward the Judge Magister, and then tilted his head in the direction of the cells.

The Captain's eyes never left the shielded face before him.  
Though nothing in Ashe's words had made it seem that she had confided to Jaiger the secret of the deception that had taken him from this place, Basch wondered…  
And even if she had not…how much did this soldier understand of what he'd witnessed…  
How much more did he sense?

Basch could not be comfortable with the thought of exposure before those he had not learned to trust. And yet, here again, he must concede…This young man was a Captain of the Knights of the Kingdom.  
…He was Ashe's choice to take his place beside the throne…  
This final realization brought the Judge Magister's eyes to the Captain with renewed intensity.

The silence was thick for a time, and then Jaiger put a hand on Wulf's shoulder.  
"Thank you, Wulf. I'll see to the Judge Magister."

Wulf stared into the Archadian's obscured face for a moment, his gaze threatening, his stance protective at his Captain's side. And then abruptly he lowered his blade and whirled, the worn cloak whipping violently in his vanishing wake.

"Don't take Wulf lightly, Judge Magister. He is a worthy warrior and loyal ally."

So…the young Captain did have his friends. …Good.

"I will allow you to speak with the prisoner." Jaiger paused, and Basch awaited the qualifications. "The bars remain between you. And your weapons you will leave."

Basch balked, his hand clenched around the staff of the unified blades.  
"If hostility against your Kingdom were my intent, already you would know of it." The Judge Magister's voice was both gruff and sharp. Basch's thoughts were on the vulnerability of the young lord in his care.

Noah instinctively understood and was glad for Basch's antagonistic defense of Larsa's safety. A skewed smile slipped uncalled to Noah's face as he heard the contentious tone of what was to be his own voice. He laughed wryly to himself, and spared a touch of pity for the young Captain who dared the Judge Magister's wrath.

"And if harm to your lord Larsa had been _my_ purpose you too would also have by now seen." Jaiger's own perception was keen, his return was direct. "These are my terms. Accept them, or go your way."

The prisoner could not see the young Captain's hand slip to the grip of his sword, but there was no need. He could feel the tension in the words.  
Noah closed his eyes as his head rested upon the hard cot, forcing himself to accept the impasse.  
…So close…So far away…

The voices dropped to a low murmur, indiscernible to his ears, and then came the beat of armored footsteps upon the stone.  
Noah anticipated the return of the Captain…and then of a sudden recognized the gait.  
His eyes flew open and his head turned to see the visage of the darkly armored Judge Magister standing just outside the cage.

The voice that spoke was low and hushed, and now without masked pretense. The helm was slowly taken away.

"Hello…Noah."

--------------------------------------------------

"You have grown very thin."

Basch wished to reverse the words as soon as they left his lips…

Still…it was true…

Strong, yes it seemed, but it could not be ignored that Noah had the look of one who had endured a long illness.  
Thinned, pale, and the shadows beneath his eyes were dark and deep, as if too fiercely had been pressed the pliable tissue there.

Basch studied his brother's form through the shadowed light along the passage, looking for sign of the blood he was certain he'd earlier glimpsed upon the worn clothing.  
...Troubled by the pulse of dread that his brother's state brought to his own heart.

_Less than a shadow. Less than a man. Sentenced to death and yet you live. Why?_

Did Noah remember those words? Basch could not but wonder as he peered through the bars and into the face of his twin. If he should ask, what answer would Noah give to the question once demanded of him…

Noah did remember. And well.  
He remembered what it was like, standing in that very armor looking in on his brother through a frame of bars…wondering…waiting…  
But there the situations parted.  
Basch had been innocent, sent to chains for the sake of another's scheme.  
He had come by way of his own making.  
In the matter of Meret Denali it could be said his plight was not deserved…  
…But then perhaps justice had only been late in collecting for grievances of the past.  
A great irony of fate would settle the score at last.  
But there was no time for this…

With some difficulty he maneuvered his body to stand beside the cot, as close to the cell door as his chains would allow. "Are we alone enough?"

Noah's voice was so soft Basch could barely pick up the sound.  
Basch turned his eyes to the right without moving his head, and answered softly, "…Enough."

Noah understood and kept his voice muted. "Meret Denali-"

"Was an enemy of the peace. I understand." Basch provided a blunt interruption.

Noah blinked, the response unexpected. He paused only a beat to adjust his train of thought, and then went on. "Dimas Apolinar is much involved in this. His arrival has no part of diplomacy."

Basch's sigh was like a growl, and Noah felt his stomach tighten. He'd not realized how he had relied upon the idea that Basch would see the truth and heed his warning. Suppose he did not…  
"I have tried to alert the Captain here, but I fear my reputation-"

"…My reputation…"

Noah heard the reflexive counter, so quiet it was little more than a breath, and stopped…face frozen.

When Basch realized he had spoken aloud he shifted and turned his eyes aside.  
The words had come without his beckoning.

Silence fell heavy between them.

"Larsa must be protected!" Noah urged, worry and shame sharpening his tone past intent.

"And protect him I shall!" Basch flared. His armored body was rigid.

Noah's eyes sparked with brooding defiance. He had been battered, but he had not been broken.

Each was unsettled and uneasy. The silence between them resumed.

"Kasan Ranel." When Basch spoke his voice was once again deliberate and low.

The mention of the name brought wariness to Noah's eyes. "You know of him?"

Basch's eyes were as guarded when he replied. "We have met." He continued to view Noah with unmistakable reservation. "I hear he has vanished."

Noah's eyes flashed. "He has _been_ vanished! By Dimas Apolinar!"

"You know this?" Basch questioned neutrally, and the muscle of Noah's jaw flexed.

"Kasan was attending the Festival-" Noah continued, quiet still but with an edge of impatience.

"Yes. With a girl, Dwen by name."

"Heh…" A river of repressed emotion released and overflowed. "Tell me, _Judge Magister_, if you know _all_ why you do _nothing_?!"  
Noah's words were full of anger and tension. "Tell me what excuse you find that Meret Denali was given freedom to prey upon-"

"Perhaps Meret Denali might in prison's keep have _remained_ if there had been _any_ _record_ of _any_ _crime_ made by the one who upon his misdeeds passed judgment!!" Basch's voice was gruff and his manner severe.

Noah's body trembled with turbulence of spirit, struck deeply by the truth in his brother's words… The failure was his own.

Basch unyieldingly glared through the bars at the shackled form…  
The brother he had loved…  
The brother he loved still…  
Twice lost…  
Once to choice…  
Once to supposed death…  
Was his brother to be lost again so soon?  
Would this meeting be their last?  
This memory the one they would take?  
…One to life… …One to the grave?  
By the moment his anger fell…

Noah's voice was intense but strained. "Meret Denali was only an arrogant child compared to Dimas Apolinar."  
The cowering timidity of Dimas' wife, the fear and longing in the eyes of the boy, years of bloody reports on the violent deeds of the Rozarrian General came to him.  
"He is _another_ breed. It is a wonder he has no claws, and blood does not drip from his teeth."

Basch heard the loathing in his brother's tone, and behind his quiet eyes he was rapidly considering what he knew with what he'd learned. The assassin in the Archadian cell…he had the look of a Rozarrian.  
And yet somehow he could not escape the thought of the reputation and rumored deeds of Judge Magister Gabranth… He watched Noah with reservation, and Noah's eyes darkened and turned aside from the doubt in his brother's.

Other footsteps were heard within the passage, and a young soldier appeared, nervous and anxious in his assignment. "Uh-Judge Magister Gabranth?"

"Yes?" The Judge Magister acknowledged but did not turn his attention from the prisoner.

The soldier licked his dry lips and cleared his throat. "Her Royal Highness, Our Esteemed Lady, Queen Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, requests your presence, with that of Imperial Archadian Majesty, Lord Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, this evening."

"If it so pleases my lord we will attend."

"Thank you, Your-Most-Gracious-Honor."

Noah's lips turned slightly as amusement lightened his face.  
Basch felt a tide of affection wash away the reasons for his anger.

"General Dimas Apolinar and his entourage will also be present." The young soldier added.

Noah's eyes sprang back to Basch's in alarm.

"Thank you." The Judge Magister was cool but polite and the young soldier bowed and quickly exited.

The footsteps rescinded, and the brothers were again alone, save for the guard at the end of the hallway.

Noah's whisper was so low that Basch read it on his lips rather than hearing the sound, and yet there was no escaping the urgency there.  
"Basch…Dimas Apolinar _is_ the face of the enemy. …Though you may not believe _me_… You must not trust _him_…"  
He paused, and then entreated with desperation in his eyes, "You _must not.._. Or all that was hoped for may yet be lost."

Basch was unreadable. He stood for a moment, and then he too turned to go. He took one step, and stopped. "I would protect Larsa-and the Queen-with my life."  
His back was turned as he spoke, though he glimpsed over his armored shoulder and away.

Noah watched as Basch replaced the familiar helm, and listened as he departed, wondering if his brother's ears too had once fought to hear footsteps as silence reclaimed its place.

He flexed his burdened hands, both numb and pained, and returned to the cot, left alone with his chains.


	24. Devour

"Remember the days before the scandal? When it seemed the world was on brink of change, and the Senate in a fever to see it done. Too swift an act, too quick a word… The winds shifted, the end came…  
It seemed none had chance to catch a breath before the dust had settled and things were as they had been, save two empty chairs at Gramis' hand. And those who had nurtured the thing were suddenly blind to the deed, saving themselves for some future opportunity. …Someone must always pay for such…And not always the guilty."

Zargabaath watched the form of the female Senator as she exited his office. Once a friend, when they were younger, then an ally, before the allegations of conspiracy had made the divide into a chasm between the Magistry and the Senate. Perhaps it was these vintage loyalties that brought her, in the pretense of communicating the Senate's stance, with a veiled warning for vigilance and care in this volatile atmosphere.

The introspective Judge Magister pondered this, his fingers touching beneath his chin.  
His own fate was tied to that of House Solidor and the enigmatic Judge Magister Gabranth. Was his footing strong? Was this peace he had made himself a part of to last?  
...If even the boy Emperor could not keep his ally the Queen of Dalmasca cooperative…

Archadia, at any cost, must survive and stand strong.  
House Solidor had seen this done for two centuries time, and he had served as Knight to Gramis since a young man. He knew the ways of politics and how greatness often hinged upon the small thing.

He and Gabranth had never deemed it necessary to share more than duty in the past.  
Each had been polite but at all times detached. And Gabranth's close working relationship with Drace had truthfully not endeared him, Zargabaath could admit.

There had been a strain of resentment within some of the Elite fraternity, Bergan came to mind, that something of an outsider might be chosen and brought so close to the hand of rule.  
There too had come, Zargabaath had then noted, a bitter chill in young lord Vayne's manner as he learned of his father's decision.

But whatever the first thought it could not now be questioned, his combat merit, or his fierce defense of Larsa. And his skills as the leader of the 9th Bureau were understood.

They had worked well together since the end of the war. Judge Magister Gabranth had at times seemed out of sorts lately…vague…And then this business with Meret Denali…

Zargabaath sighed and passed his hand over his eyes.

Perhaps it was proving a trying thing, making the transition from the shadows to the public arena.  
Perhaps it was overmuch burden to bear, seeing to young Larsa's needs and increased responsibilities while continuing his own. The dispersion of lesser responsibilities to the minor Judges had been intended to aid in that account, and Zargabaath was there to share the duties of the Magistry, but still...

…Perhaps it was only that the fierce war and turbulent peace had usurped the task of time and wearied and aged the young.

Rest, he thought, was an intriguing illusion… Always one duty beyond reach.

Zargabaath pushed back his heavy, carved chair and strode toward the door. His bodyguard joined him a step behind as he made his way down the hallways toward his goal.

Already he had viewed the prisoner. The guard there reported no change. Always he ate only a few bites of the food pushed through the small slot, and then returned to his position upon the floor.  
He was Gabranth's problem, and, as he'd been given no word otherwise, the prisoner could wait to die until Gabranth returned.

But Zargabaath was curious. Haleine Ranel…  
They had met once, long ago. Inar Ranel had been a man of influence then, before his impropriety had ruined his reputation and made it difficult for any of ambition to be seen in his company.  
Haleine had been a charming, beautiful young woman with a laughing smile and a quick wit… Inar Ranel was clearly a fool. He might at very least have used his influence to avoid revelations of a mistress, and to have kept his love child better hidden. Society forgives much if allowed, but judges harshly those who reveal their weakness. Ah well. The Ranel family had managed a living, and held onto enough renown to remain a part of the acceptable order. But whispers had never fully been extinguished. Even now there was talk of _"that son"_ of Inar Ranel.

He entered the ward and went at once to the room where Haleine Ranel lay pale and silent.  
She was still beautiful, although there were threads of silver in her dark hair and a few small lines upon her face.

"Madame Ranel." Zargabaath stood at her bedside, his hands clasped behind his back. "I regret that I find you unwell. Every effort will be made on your behalf, I assure."

The lady before him did not stir.

He observed her lashes fell like dark veils from her eyes to cast shadows upon her upper cheekbones, but there was no fluttering response, no parting to reveal the orbs beneath. Her lips were a purple cast, and her skin was like chalk.

Zargabaath frowned. It did not look promising. "Physician!"

A small man answered the Judge Magister's beckoning, craning his neck to look into his face.  
"Yes, Your Honor?"

"Why does she not waken? You are giving her the proper medications?"

"Yes, of course!" the aged physician frowned. "She suffered great loss of blood, and trauma to her body."

"Still. It seems there must be some measure to take that would see her returned..."

"You stab and shoot one another at will and think we here can simply patch the holes like one repairs a wall! Not always is it possible to undo what others have done when dealing in flesh and blood!"

"Nonetheless, you will give her case your personal attention, doctor. It is my will. Understood?" Zargabaath, normally mild, was forceful with the frustrated royal caregiver.

"As you wish, Judge Magister." The bowed stiffly, affronted.

Zargabaath observed closely as the doctor check the patient's vitals and administer a dosage of medicines.

"Is there any more I can do for you, Your Honor?"

At the little man's terse inquiry, Zargabaath turned on his heel. "I will be back. I expect to see some change."

Zargabaath passed by the room next to Haleine's and saw the young soldier abed, his ribs heavily bandaged and taped.

"How are you, son?" Zargabaath's voice was somber, and the soldier lifted his eyes to the figure in the doorway.

"Better, sir, thank you." He gave a brave smile.

So young. Like so many others who left home never to return.  
His soft brown hair was matted by leaning upon the pillow, and he appeared yet tired and weak.  
But he had awakened to live, and that was more than could be said for the lady in the adjacent room.

"Do they tell you how long you must stay?" Zargabaath wished to gauge the severity of his wounds by his answer, but he was disappointed.

"They will not tell me, Your Honor. Only that I must do as they say if I wish to leave at all."  
The boy smiled softly.

"Then do as they say." Zargabaath admonished firmly. "And recover."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir. I only wish I could get back to my post." The boy smiled wearily, and sighed.

Zargabaath nodded. "A worthy soldier."  
The boy attempted a bow and grimaced. The veteran Judge Magister held up a staying hand.  
"Rest, son. Give it time."

The young knight lay his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Zargabaath watched for awhile to make certain he could see the young man's chest rise, and then he continued on.

-------------------------------------------

Dimas Apolinar stared from the window of his private airship, his hands flexing within the gloves of his dress uniform. He was uncomfortable in the suit of clothes.  
He was unhappy at being again called to dance upon the strings. Like a little puppet they wished him to bow to the soft hands of weaklings and fools.

How he disdained those that used him-who coveted his strength and sought his rage like eager children enthralled by a wild beast.  
They greatly needed the use of his hand, and yet they grew squeamish with the result of it.

He remembered well, when the pretty-boy, Al-Cid Margrace, had prompted investigation into civilian complaints against him, they had come to him with the choice…  
Be removed from his position as General, and die disgraced, or give his loyalty to them.

He had retained his position and his honor, and yet at what price?  
They had shackled him with rich, blithering idiots like Meret Denali. The fool had considered himself worthy of greatness, and they had petted him as if he was a worthy leader.  
Denali had died still blinded by their frothy, sweet lies. Never had he seen that his wealth and name were all that mattered to the cause.  
It was good he was dead. Ridiculous farce of a man, believing he could stand toe to toe with Dimas Apolinar.  
Dimas could have broken him without consideration, and for years now had longed to do just that.  
Of course they were unhappy with the loss… And angry with him for allowing it…

They had shackled him in invisible chains of perceptions and appearances.  
You will be married, they had said… To this one here, they had said…  
You will have a son, they had said… This one, they said… And let no _lasting_ ill come to him.  
Walk among the people as a family…  
Let the rumors and the accusations fall against the protection of an honored name…  
Let no scandal come to public ears…  
Leave no trail, save the image of a devoted husband and father and champion of Rozarria…  
Keep to you men who have much to lose…  
If they have family, all the better… If they know love, better still…  
What is done out of sight and hearing…that is for you to decide.

He had not needed their advice on controlling his men. But their approval gave him license in these things…

He did not care for their approval… But it was still necessary…for now.  
And how they liked to chastise him for paltry little things…  
He had killed the wrong man, they said… The family would make trouble …  
While they were ringing their hands and fearing to be found out, he had dealt with the problem as always he did.  
And there had been no trouble.  
The family had gone to join their lost soul. …Pity about the fire.  
It had silenced his judges.  
He had been drunk on the fear that had shot through their eyes.  
Even now the reminder sent a shockwave of satisfaction through his body.

Dimas' guards saw the tremor pass through their commander's body, and tension tightened in their own frames. Well they knew that the convulsion was born of pleasure and not of fright.  
Eyes closed, his open lips revealed the slow smile of a predator, tantalized by watching his doomed prey.

The craft hit a rough airway and lurched. A growl passed his lips as the vision broke.  
The Rozarrian soldiers braced, not against the turbulence but against his wrath. His wife paled and gasped, not wishful of being the object of his attention just now.

Dimas stretched his long, lean body, glad to feel the hunger within his belly.  
He would play the part well. He would sup with the royal wench tonight. But he had little need of food.

He reached over and pulled his wife to him with a rough embrace, his teeth raking hard against her tender skin.  
She trembled violently beneath his touch, and by her fear stoked his great lust.

The guards cast their eyes away, and directed their attention through the swirling sand in the air and the sheen of dusk toward the approaching royal city of Rabanastre.  
The pilot would land the ship outside the city, upon the clearly lit plot… Where already an Archadian vessel was grounded…

The guards exchanged alarmed looks, but did not dare interrupt their General.

From the field they would take the small, but secure, hovercraft to the royal city where their General would be met and escorted by royal guard to the Castle…and into the presence of Her Ladyship the Queen of Dalmasca.

One Rozarrian soldier subtly motioned to the other, and the second guard frowned as he looked through the glow of sunset at the tiny scenes below for what could be the cause. There he saw in the outlying wilder lands a curious sight. It was a white Chocobo, rare bounty indeed, but rarer still was that he looked to be hitched to a cart with what appeared to be someone astride!  
One of the guards rubbed his eyes as his companion widened his to stare at the weird scene. Maybe they were seeing things. Must be a trick of the light. Must be…

Gisela's sobs and their master's responding violence shook them from their distraction.  
The first guard's face fell with troubled emotion, and the second gave to him a stern warning glance.  
The soldiers could afford to nurture no loyalty between them, and yet what impacted one might be also the fall and fate of the other. It was enough to prompt them, for the sake of self-preservation, to each be the other's warden.

Dimas, seemingly otherwise preoccupied, witnessed their exchange in the reflection of the window and felt a surge of heightened power.  
Yes, he was hungry…Ravenous…  
With one hand he restrained the arm that was not already pinned by his body, and the other gripped Gisela's face, forcing her to look helplessly up to him as his lips took hers.

The craft bumped softly as it landed, and the guards were thankful for the pilot's interruption.

Dimas rose without glancing at his disheveled, sobbing, shamed spouse.  
He straightened his elaborate uniform, and the guards prepared his long dress coat, holding it for him to step into. He shrugged it upon his muscular shoulders, and waited as they buckled a wide belt across his neck and under one arm.  
The many medals upon the leather created a glittering swath of color across his chest.  
The second guard held out to him the highly ornamental ceremonial sword. Though it was no less deadly for its peaceful intent, Dimas exchanged his own with an irritated frown.  
He would play the fool this night, but not always.

Gisela was still choking back tears as she attempted to make right her own rumpled costume. Unlike her husband, she had wholly looked forward to this night. Seldom enough did she get to leave her room, save to parade about on his arm like a show pony, or to be spirited away to a different location and another set of walls.  
How she longed to meet the Dalmascan Queen! A small kingdom, but a kingdom still. And young was this leader, but, by accounts, a warrior and a ruler of men.  
How she desired to see what it was to be a woman standing strong, at whose words leaders took careful note, for whose cause and for whose protection mighty warriors would fight and good men would willingly die. To look into the eyes of such a woman, to see what this confidence and power might look like, and to perhaps glean some hint of her secret…  
She fingered the sleeve, torn, undecided on how to best conceal the marks he left behind.

"My wife is indisposed and will not be accompanying me. Return my wife to her rooms. See that she is well guarded." His eyes were hard. "Gisela, keep a close eye on the boy, or you'll not find me forgiving." He walked away, flanked by his guards who were careful to show no reaction to the scene. "Don't worry, dearest…I'll give the Queen your regrets."  
With a cruel shard of satisfaction his words sundered her thin dreams.

The lady collapsed upon the floor as the hovercraft sped away.  
There she remained, heedless of the pilot's warning that she take her seat and secure herself.  
Her anguish was so great that she made no sound as the river of tears tore within her frail form.  
The airship lifted, taking its damaged cargo, and leaving Rabanastre and Dalmasca's warrior Queen to Dimas Apolinar.

-----------------------------------------------

The darkness inside the cave was suffocating and disorienting. More than one time Kasan stumbled upon a loose stone, or knocked his head against a low hanging.  
Still he kept moving with one hand upon the rough cave wall. He looked for any sign of light, listened for any sound that might lead him out.  
He only hoped he was moving toward freedom and not deeper into his prison.

And then his eye caught something. Not light, exactly. But a different shade of darkness.  
Night had fallen.

Eager for escape, Kasan picked up his pace, and then halted.

Barely visible, a guard stood at the mouth of the cave, his form a deeper, more solid span than the shadow around him.  
Kasan's foot slipped, and the guard turned at the sound. Quickly Kasan lowered himself to the ground, and waited.  
The guard took a few steps into the inky black, peered this way and that, sighed, and returned uneasily to his post.

He uttered no sound when hit by Kasan's strategically placed blow.  
His knees buckled and he crumbled to the earth without so much as a moan.

Kasan stooped next to the form, feeling the guard's pulse and giving his own eyes time to adjust.  
They had some small fires lit, but very small… They did not wish to be seen. Neither did he.  
Quickly Kasan put his hands to the ground and brought them to his face, blotting out the brightness of his skin with dirt.  
He slipped the guard's sword silently from its scabbard, and took one last, careful look, stepping past the prone figure, and keeping low to the earth.  
At every shift in the shadow, with every difference in the air, he dropped to the earth and crawled through the grunge of sand and clay, sparse stalks of reedy grass whipping at his face.  
...And swiftly made his way from the camp.

-----------------------------------

Discretion bought with the fear of discovery had kept Dwen from him. But finally now she dared slip from her pallet, walking with the silence of a ghost and the vision of a seer toward the cave.  
And yet something disturbed her peace, brought her heart to a faster beat with every footfall.

Wildly her violet orbs pierced the darkness...  
Where....?

Alarmed and alert, the snowy hair on her arms and neck stood.

The guard with whom she'd _negotiated_ safe access to the cave...and to Kasan...where was he?!

Panic took over as her eyes discovered the still form of the soldier.  
She leapt over the body without care for his condition, and raced to where she'd left Kasan sleeping only hours before.

The cave was aglow with her fear and fury.

He was gone.


	25. Haunted

Dwen raced through the darkness, the aura emitting from her violet eyes swelling with her fear.  
Her feet were bare and coated with the sand that sprayed up her legs with every foot fall.  
But neither sand nor stone nor darkness hindered her purposed flight.

Where could he be? Surely he could not have gotten far. She would have known… She would have sensed… But all that mattered now was that she must be quick.  
…If the others wakened to find them gone… If the General heard of the escape…

Kasan would try to get back to a populated area. He would try to contact someone of authority.  
But he would surely not try to go back to the location of the Festival. This he would bypass.  
Too much lay between him and his homeland. He would almost surely head to Dalmasca, hoping to intercept some roving guard between the border and the Royal City…

Dwen changed her route slightly, as she deliberated, never slowing her step.

Kasan saw her pass, having pulled aside to rest after an hour of forcing aching muscles, too long cramped in his confinement, to move hastily onward.  
He peered through a curtain of vines which fell from the face of a cliff and draped to conceal the worn recess within the wall of stone, and took in the desperation in her form as she ran.

Stretching as he stood, and slipping cautiously from his hiding place, Kasan carefully looked about to espy any members of the party that might have accompanied or followed the young woman. Seeing none, he kept his sword readied and ran silently after her.

Trailing Dwen proved a harder task than he'd anticipated. Her gait was tireless and quick, and never seemed to slow. Powerfully she pulled her body ahead. Clearly she had considered his path, and keeping to her pace would see him arrive in quicker time than he'd been making on his own. Eyes hard and grim, his lips twisted in irony.

She felt the presence of another, and her heartbeat picked up a beat. She could not be taken now. She was coming so close!

She darted through a thin patch of trees, and circled around through tangled brush to a giant rock formation. She pressed herself against the uneven surface and worked her way around toward where she was certain her tracker would appear.

"Hello, Dwen."

The glow from her fingertips lit the sword he had pointed toward her chest, and the blade slowly turned from steel to glowing fiery red. Neither flinched or turned, their eyes locked each upon the others.

It was the disappointment, the hurt that she found there, that extinguished the flame and made her drop her hands in defeat. The sword did not lower. His gaze did not yield.

"Kasan. Please. You must understand."

"Understand what, Dwen? That you lied to me? Baited and trapped me?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "But don't worry, Dwen. I'll not hold this against you. I made an easy mark, I know."

"No…" She whispered the word, but he breathed angrily and cut his eyes her way with such fierceness that she did not pursue.

"…What are you?" His tone and expression betrayed his bewilderment.

"_What?_ Is that what you think of me now? That I'm a monster? A beast?!" Her eyes flashed, and her lips quivered with emotion.

"No, Dwen. I'm not saying that… But…it would be helpful if you could explain."

"Not now, Kasan… You must trust me. I'll not hurt you." She pleaded with him softly, holding out her hands, now the soft hands of a woman. He recoiled from them.

"You'll not hurt me?" He laughed lightly, and ran his fingers through his long, tangled hair. "Well. That's good news then. I'll be seeing you, Dwen."

He lowered his sword, and moved past her, on toward Dalmasca's border, still, considering his tiredness, too far away.

"I can't let you go."

He smiled sadly as he turned. It was as he had known. She had not come to join him. She had come to detain him.  
"So-how will you stop me then? Will you _kill _me, Dwen?" His eyes were soft, and hers were touched with dew.

"Please, Kasan… Don't say such things."

"Then what? What should I say?" He closed the distance between them, his fingers lifted to trace her pronounced cheekbones, and trail down her face. They hesitated, but went on slowly to her lips.

She closed her eyes and let him take her face within his hands, tears falling softly.  
His lips touched hers only barely and then came away. Her hands caught his wrists, and her lips eagerly leapt to his. …But he did not respond to her touch, and when her eyes took in his face, his eyes were distant and reserved.

"I love you, Kasan." Dwen whispered softly, and he laughed as though hurt.

He turned his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he turned back to her his features were smoothed and his eyes set. "I'm going on, Dwen. If you want to stop me, you'll have to force me. And if you succeed in taking me back, I swear I'll escape again…or I'll make them kill me keeping me from it."  
The determination in his voice could not be mistaken.

She stood still as he moved, her eyes darting frantically as she considered her options.

Her footsteps were light as she came to his side. "Please, Kasan, listen to me! There's no reason for you to feel this way!" At his incredulous look, she hastened on. "I know it looks bad. But wars always do."

"The war is over. Or hadn't anyone told you?" His tone was dry.

"The war between the powers of Dalmasca and Archadia is over, perhaps. I owe my allegiance to neither."

"Then to who? Rozarria?" Kasan did not halt, but he was carefully listening.

"To the people! Of Rozarria, of Dalmasca, of Archadia, of Bhujerba…and of the remnants everywhere and anywhere in between."

This stopped him. He turned to her with confusion and caution. "What do you mean by this?"

"Kasan, sit down, please. Let me explain." She motioned to a clearing, and he hesitated but then laughed.

"Sure, sure. So your friends can have time to catch up with us." He gave her a reprimanding look, and a chiding smile. "No thanks, Dwen." He motioned her on. "But go ahead and explain if you like. As long as you keep up, I can hear fine."

His strides were long. She was right beside him.

"The Empires, the Kingdoms, they war and struggle over matters of politics and power, over Emperors and Kings and territory. It's the people who suffer, Kasan. Those caught in between."

"King Raminas died. And Emperor Gramis, his eldest sons, and Vayne..." Neutrally Kasan inserted the reminder.

"It is only right that those who make the wars should die in them." Her judgment was cold and absolute.

Kasan's reply was quiet but clear. "Then whose place is it to die in the war that you create?"

Dwen was sober, and he felt death and doom in her stormy gaze. "We all sacrifice together now. But in time we will share the power as well."

Kasan halted, studying her carefully. "And how many will you sacrifice for this cause?"

"How many died needlessly for the sake of the last?! Our cause is not empty or vain."

Kasan shivered. "Listen, after so many years of war, there is peace now…and there is opportunity…" He lifted his hands, searching for how to reason with her.

"War is always a heartbeat away. Still the powers of Rozarria and Archadia are at odds, Dalmasca works to improve her place, and Bhujerba waits. What good is peace, when the power stays in the hands of those who at a whim can turn?!"

Kasan met her eyes soberly. "And what is it you are proposing? That you have the right to take the power from them, and hold it yourself? What better thing is this?" He shook his head in frustration and resumed his pace.

He was twenty paces ahead when her voice caught him.

"They called me a monster when I was a child. I didn't even have a name."

Kasan stopped.

"They mocked me. They hurt me. They turned me out." The anger and the pain in her voice were real. "They said I deserved to be dead, for the crime of being born, and more than once they tried to make it so." The memory sharpened her words and clenched her glowing fists. Embers up her arms crept.  
"Kasan! You know what people say about you! Because of your father's wrong they look down on you as if you are an inferior being. And you believe them, or you wouldn't still be trying to make up for it with that witch."

"Stop it, Dwen." His voice was firm but calm. He watched her closely as her body physically responded to her emotion.

"No! Kasan! Someone has to stand up for us! Someone has to speak for the lesser sons and daughters of bloody men and heartless women. Someone has to make it right!"

Kasan sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I understand how you feel, Dwen. I do." Truly...it felt as if he could feel her very heart raging in his.

"Then come back with me!" Her face was suddenly eager, her eyes bright. She reached out to take his hand. He winced, anticipating pain at her strange touch, but instead the sensation soothed.  
"Come back, not as a prisoner, but as a warrior! You are strong. You are proud. You are brave. My…how we could use you! We could fight together…" Her voice was wistful, and he felt her longing.

He smiled sadly, and her hands slipped as she moved back to look closely at his face. "I've been used before, Dwen. Many times." His face grew wearied. "And I've fought in too many battles, and killed too many men who fought for nothing less than I. …I don't want any more of it."

Silence lay heavy between them as Kasan was lost to memory that had kept him awake so many nights.

"But you could help end so much suffering…" Her face betrayed her honest confusion. "You could be part of a real change!" Again Dwen's face brightened.  
"On the seat of power, through the Empires and Kingdoms of Ivalice, sits the offspring of generations of rule. They need not care. They need not change. They are so far removed from the people they claim to serve that the same light does not hit their faces. They have no part of the people!"

"Larsa seems like a kind young man. I think he will do his best for Archadia." Kasan offered softly, watching as emotions played through Dwen's eyes and made the aura of violet light dance.

"Larsa has never known life beyond the Imperial court. How can he speak for the people?!" Her anger returned, and she stepped away.

"Perhaps he wants to know the people… Do you know otherwise? You must give him time to show his intent before you judge him."

"Time will only make the new alliances between the rulers stronger. It will only make the people more vulnerable, and our enemies more difficult to defeat!"

"Even if what you say is so, the remedy cannot be brought about in this way!" Kasan felt the icy hand of fear on his heart. In his mind he saw the bodies of his allies and enemies, broken, slain.  
He saw the homes burning and the fields, and the children dead by an errant strike that none had planned and could stay. If war came again he would fight to defend what he must, but against its coming he prayed.

Dwen persisted. "The time is right that someone bound to the people should lead them!"

"Will you lead them?" Kasan asked cautiously.

She scowled. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Then who?"

Her eyes cooled somewhat, and he felt her resistance. She would not trust him with this.

"Someone bound to the people…but whose right cannot be questioned… That is enough for you to know now. Come with me, and you will learn the rest." Again she betrayed her hope and desire.

He smiled at her gently. "Earlier you spoke of my strength as something to be proud of… And yet I know a part of you thinks me weak for questioning you. …And for caring for Haleine." He was silent for a moment. "If only you knew how much easier it would be for me to walk away from her…or to come to you… To give in to my rage or to my need… Do you think I'm not tempted? Do you think it doesn't wear and strain? …But, Dwen, when you burn a bridge you must take care to consider if there is anything at all left behind to which you may wish a way to return, even if that be only a path to your own heart. …Perhaps even you have something left to lose."

"What have I to lose?" Her face twisted in anger, her brow darkly shadowing her eerily glowing eyes.

He simply looked back at her, and she knew. "I can't go with you into this hate, Dwen. It would destroy us both, and everything we care about in ourselves and each other." He paused. "But then…I wonder if it could be you do not truly feel I am worthy of you. After all, a woman with so much power under her command would not want to be seen with a lesser man." There was mild accusation and strong irony in his eyes. Her reaction showed that his words stung.

He approached her again quietly, and reached out to brave the strange glow, caressing her hair that seemed to move in a wind that was not blowing. "I'm sorry that they hurt you." His words were whispered, a mere breath upon her skin. "Whoever thought of you as less than worthy was wrong. …Maybe they lacked the artist's eye. You're beautiful, Dwen, and much more." He dropped his hands to look down at them. "I thank you for this… Such wounds don't heal this quickly, well I know..." He looked again into her brimming eyes. "It was your doing. I am grateful…"

He dropped his gaze to the arm-guard she wore…the one that he'd created. His fingers traced the scroll-work and intricate settings.

"Taking what they have, to replace what they have stolen from you…it won't make anything right. The pieces won't fit. If you do this thing, Dwen, you'll only succeed in giving away what they couldn't claim. You'll lose everything… Is it really worth it?"

She stumbled back from him, and fled so swiftly that he lost her almost at once to the night. Only a strange wisp of light and the pulsing sound of her sobs remained.

He longed to rush after her, and had to force himself to stay. Roughly he pushed away tears that had jumped to chase hers.

Dalmasca… He reminded himself firmly of his task. A faint thought rose. Would Gabranth be there…? Surely not.  
But whichever way, Dalmasca was the closest location to which he could turn. He had to make it there before she sent someone after him. It might already be too late…

He forced his feet to ignore his heart-and ran.

Basch had met the Captain's terms and surrendered the sword…

The thought came to Noah in the empty void that claimed the space his brother had filled.  
Noah had been certain Basch would not meet the Captain's demands…  
And now he wasn't sure whether to be angry or pleased…  
A Judge Magister should never be unarmed. …Especially in the face of the enemy…  
And yet…he was not so truly surprised that his brother had come. A part of him had been waiting.  
Their positions reversed, with Basch in the Empires hands, Noah had never been able to deny the invisible cord that bound them.

Until fate had divided them every page in every chapter of his life had included his brother's name.  
…Perhaps too this still remained, only where once the stories were dear now the tales told only of shame. Memories of better times grew faint in the face of so much pain. Were the kinder words erased?

Something stirred in Noah's heart…

_How dark the sky had been that day… How wide the meadow to seven year old legs.  
They had torn across the field, the rain sweeping behind, nipping at their heels, and dove into the rundown shed that stood lonely and abandoned on the open land... _

"_Are you scared, Bash?" The clouds were churning unnaturally, the sky groaning as if it were about to give way. _

"_No...." Basch stared uncertainly into the storm. _

_Noah swallowed. "Me either."_

_Each moved closer to the other and peered transfixed into the angry torrent. _

_A flash of lightning, a sharp crack of thunder, and the boys the boys jumped and clung shivering to one another, all pretense of courage abandoned.  
Together they stared, eyes huge with fear, at the raging curtain that divided them from even the sight of home.  
Brutal pounding hit upon the dilapidated roof, and stones of ice bounced across the land and into the open entrance of their shelter. Together the boys bounded into the corner and flung themselves into the straw. How long they stayed, neither would ever know, for though the thunder and hail ceased at last, the rain that continued lulled the fear-fatigued boys into the arms of comforting sleep. _

The memory softened Noah's eyes.

_When at last Noah had stirred it was to the faint call, "Basch! Noah! Boys!! Basch! Answer me!! Noah! Where are you?!" It had seemed a dream, and his heavy lids had refused to hold. When next they opened it was upon the sight of muddied boots and pant legs, and to the murmur of frustrated, stressed tones. "So here you are, my reckless young. Fast asleep, not a care in the world, and your mother beside herself with worry. I'd give you something to truly fear, did I think it would affect any good." And yet despite his rough tone his hands were gentle as their father took them up, each limply draped upon one of his strong shoulders, and tramped through the soggy ground toward home. He met their concerned mother half-way, she as damp from searching as he, and transferred still-sleeping Basch into her waiting arms. He'd slung Noah around like a babe, eyes grim as he looked into the face of his groggy child. Nothing was said until the two lads had been dried and warmed and fed. And then their father had looked them over with such unhappiness that they had known dread only a little less than that caused by the storm. _

"_You know you are not to stray so far unless with one of us to accompany you. It is far too dangerous, as you have now found and previously been told. What have you to say?"_

"_It was my fault, father. I was chasing after a wolf." Basch stepped forward, resolved, though shamefaced._

"_Oh were you now?!" Their father reacted incredulously, throwing his hands up and shaking his head. "And what, pray tell, do you expect would have happened had you overtaken it?!"_

_Basch bit his lip and turned his eyes to the floor. _

_Their mother looked up at their father and back to Basch. "Is this so?" _

"_No, mother, it was my fault! I was chasing the wolf! Basch was only following me!" Noah stepped forward and their mother's eyes slipped to him. _

"_Truly?" She reached a hand out and moved a strand of damp hair from Noah's forehead._

_The parents shared a look, and their father looked to the heavens and sighed. "Go on to your room, boys, and get ready for bed. You've had enough adventure for this day." _

"_As have we." Their mother added. She stopped them, putting an arm around each. "My boys…what would we do if we were to lose you?" _

_The tears in her eyes proved too much for her little ones._

"_I'm sorry, Mama." Basch said soberly, his voice quivering. _

"_Me too. Sorry." Noah's lips quivered. _

_She pulled them into an embrace, comforted their guilty tears, and sent them on their way. _

_As they passed their father he gave them a reprimanding look, but his eyes were softened with relief at their safety. He ruffled their hair briskly and then chased them on their way with a growl. "No more of this, hear me? No more!"_

_Out of sight, but not out of hearing, his words turned to their mother. "Look at them. Both intent on laying claim to fault. Beloved, I tell you… I know not whether to praise the loyalty or to punish the deceit. Likewise, I know not whether to be proud of their independence and courage or angered at their reckless wandering. …To think, as a young lad I wished so for a brother… But clearly such a partnership brings only added opportunity for disaster!"_

"_I like to think-" She offered softly, and, paused in the stairwell to listen, the boys strained to hear. "-that it means never being left to face trouble alone."_

"_Or to cause it alone, evidently." Their father was unconvinced._

"_You would wish it not so?"Her voice was somewhat disappointed and saddened, but their father had lifted her spirits with a boyish chuckle._

"_Fine, love…I'll confess that for their sake I am glad. However…for our sake…for the sake of our own potentially compromised sanity…let us give them enough work in the upcoming days and weeks to keep them from opportunity to stray…and enough trouble at home to keep them from seeking it elsewhere. Are we agreed?" _

_His tone was conspiratorial, and the sound of his kisses upon her skin made the boys cringe with distaste and scurry on to their room as the song of her laughter filled the air. "Agreed, love, agreed!!" _

Noah's lips were gently upturned as he recalled those tender days.  
Whose fault had that excursion really been?  
He could not remember, because between them it had not mattered then. So impossible it had been to divide them, even in blame, that they had not considered it any deceit to make their two stories one. It only seemed the proper thing.

And in this case, the punishment of long hours of hard work under the close watch of their parental guardians had truly been a gift. It had bought them precious days with a father not long to linger within the realm of the living.

How happy then their mother had seemed- and their father so content with her.  
Good days…  
…Long gone.

Against the thought of the grief that had stolen this peace and happiness he closed his eyes and turned his head.

Noah rested and concentrated on counting breaths in order to tame his mind, exhausted, at last unaware when he tumbled into dreams.

Sleeping, his fist clasped an invisible hand.

The chocobo flapped its silvery-white wings rapidly, calling angrily as the soldier's surrounded it and its cargo.  
In the twilight, Faolyn's wild locks seemed to match in shade as they whipped about him. He held to the neck of the large beast, as wide eyed and flighty as the creature.

"Get down from there, boy… And get that thing under control now, or we'll take it down." The warning came as the cloaked knight stepped to the front holding prepared a serrated blade.

The sound of rifles cocking, bow strings tensing, and swords being unsheathed brought the old man from his dazed state on his back sprawled within the cart, and to his knees. "Wait! Wait!"

"Why?" the guard demanded. He cautiously kept the violent chocobo at bay, circling with the creature, keeping himself out of reach of the powerful neck and legs.

"I must see him… You must take me to him…" Faolyn interrupted. He looked with pleading into the guard's face.

Wulf saw the paleness of the boy's skin, and the strange glassy shine to his eyes. Was the boy unwell?  
"Who is it that you must see?" His tone became milder and he took a step toward the rider.

The chocobo bucked and whipped his long neck toward the warrior. The troops rearranged themselves defensively, waiting word. Faolyn held on. Wulf backed away.

Tarachande moved to get out of the uncomfortable cart. Wulf held the angry blade out in warning. The old man stopped.  
"Look here. I'm an old man, and no threat to you, son. Let me get my cramped legs out of this devilish wagon before you have to carry me. Given chance, I'll gladly explain why it is we've come."

"Fine. Come on out then. Keep your hands where I can see them. And make it quick."

"When you're as old as I am, you'll define quickness differently, lad." The old man harrumphed bitterly as he scooted from the cart in as dignified a manner as he could manage, muttering darkly all the while.

Wulf laughed. "Could be. Could be. Now, what is your business here?"

"We believe you have the pleasure of the company of one of our own companions. We wish to settle his debt and relieve you of the burden of his keep." The sharp eyes of the old man met those of the younger, and saw the question and wariness that rose.

"Companion?" Wulf was careful. The smile disappeared and eyes narrowed.

"Come now, son." The old man's eyes glittered. "I recognize you as being among those who detained him. At the Faire? Perhaps you recall a man tall, with eyes blue or gray, depending on his transitory mood. Hair black, though not born that way. A warrior. You know of whom I speak…"

Wulf's manner shifted significantly to the disagreeable. "If such a prisoner exists…_if_…what should give you the right to see him?"

Tarachande spoke sharply. "He is my boarder. He left with yet some payment due."

"So petition the Kingdom for restitution." Wulf countered, and then he added cynically. "Try again, old timer."

Tarachande growled. "Young people these days… No respect for elders."

Wulf's eyes flashed and then deadened. He was done.

Tarachande sensed the door of opportunity closing. "If it is a matter of money, I will pay."

"We're through here." Wulf turned, his face set as if it were carved from stone.

"Calm yourself, young man. We only wish to see that he is well and unharmed. That does not seem to me unreasonable. Unless-" Tarachande stopped, his eyes shifting to the boy. Almost he had said, _"Unless you have killed him." _Thank goodness he had not… No telling how the boy might react.

But Faolyn was quicker of mind and understanding than the old man gave him due, and the boy shuddered violently. As he did so a strange sensation disturbed the Chocobo who whirled and bucked like mad.

The Dalmascan soldiers targeted their weapons instinctively. A wave of unnatural light rippled within the short expanse between the guards and the intruders.

"_No!!! Wait!!!" The _old man inserted himself between the gyrating beast and the soldiers, demanding the knight's attention._ "_Would you _slaughter_ a _child?!!!_"

Wulf's breathing became so still it seemed it had altogether stopped. His eyes were unblinking, focused sharply upon the boy. The soldiers waited.  
"Lower your weapons." The guards did as instructed, remaining at alert.

"It's okay, Faolyn. It's okay." The old man never took his eyes from Wulf's face, but his words to the boy were gentle.

Faolyn whispered, as if in a dream, lids opening and closing lazily over eyes too bright. "Please…"  
A tear-like drop slipped but never fell from his eyes, disappearing instead into a thin trail of light.

Wulf showed no expression. The strange emanations continued to play eerily in the shadows of night. "Go home."

Tarachande looked past the guard and his companions, seeing a soldier of familiar armor standing upon the Castle wall between two Dalmascan knights.  
The warrior turned his head toward the disturbance, but seemed unimpressed and unconcerned, looking instead to the night sky.

The old man thoughtfully looked about the Castle walls and grounds. The security was stoutly reinforced. It was a wonder they'd not been cut down on sight.  
The Queen must be here… Interesting, the presence of a Rozarrian guard.  
Was there perhaps some particular reason this Dalmascan wished so to rid himself of the bother of their presence?

The old man looked into the eyes of the younger. "I _will_ speak with the prisoner!"

Wulf growled in irritation, and whirled, motioning angrily to his companions who stepped forward to fill the gap and remove the unwelcome pair from the Castle grounds.

"I demand-!!" Tarachande persisted angrily, but he was held by two immovable guards.

"Please!" Faolyn called, and again, desperately, "Please?"

Wulf slowed and turned with some reluctance. "Listen. Kid... I can see you're worried about your friend, but-"

"My father!" Faolyn correctly swiftly.

Wulf was stunned. His brow raised as his jaw went slack. Again and again he blinked. "What?! …Say that again."

Tarachande dropped his head and closed his eyes with a sigh. "Oh Faolyn…"

Faolyn's pale face was lifted determinedly. "He is my father. And I must see him! Please! ...Please?"

"Maybe it would be best…considering…" The young guard stepped forward, clearing his throat softly, and looking back toward the Castle where a soldier had appeared and was watching.

Wulf glowered as he recognized the Rozarrian armor. "Great. That's great. Gentlemen, be proud! We've become the entertainment." His tone and expression were violent. He seethed a moment, and then made a swift decision. "Fine. You can wait inside until I settle this matter."

Faolyn smiled thankfully, but the riled warrior shook his head and lifted a hand of caution. "Don't assume this means any more than that I have more important things to do than waste time arguing with an old man and a child over a hypothetical inmate. Understand?"

Faolyn nodded, but his smile stayed and Wulf scowled in frustration.

"Drystan-" He looked down at the boy's strangely pale face and glassy eyes, and looked away, unsettled. "Take them to the waiting room. Keep them away from…_that_." He nodded in the direction of the Rozarrian's appearance. "I've some things to attend to." He shot the old man a look. "They speak to _no one _without an officer's permission, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Drystan nodded, and motioned to the two with a smile. "Well, you heard the man. Come on."

_She rose from the earth beneath, coiling like a giant serpent higher and higher until towered above him. Her eyes reflected like mirrors the undulating flames of her sparking skin. Her mouth turned in a smile and then opened in a laugh, revealing row upon row of razor sharp incisors and fangs dripping sparks like venom. Roaring with the crackle of fire and the call of thunder, like a monstrous beast she fell toward him for the kill. _

_And then he was spirited away, held back by an invisible force, pounding against the unseen bars of his cage, made helpless to watch as another became the object of her wrath._

"Faolyn…"

_He could both see the boy, and see as through the child's own eyes. Faolyn trembled, rooted in place. He was held by an unbreakable grip. There was no escape. The vicious teeth and deadly fangs were upon him. The coiling flames surrounded him, tearing, sapping, and choking the life from his frail body. He was suffering…He was calling for comfort, for aid… "Please… please!"_

_Noah beat his hands bloody. He nearly broke his arms, thrashing against what held him back. And yet there was no escape.  
The man watched helpless. Through the eyes of the child he waited in horror as doom fell without mercy. Pain tore him. The boy was shrouded from view._

"FAOLYN!!!!"

Wulf heard the haunted cry as he entered the dungeon. He unsheathed his sword and ran down the hallway, leaping over the sleepy guard who had wakened with a start and fell from his chair. He was at the door and had taken in the situation long before the other made his way there.

"What-?"

Wulf put a hand into the guard's chest, and turned glaring eyes upon him. "Tell Captain Jaiger we've an issue that needs his immediate attention." He added sharply, "And stay awake this time." The words were a warning rebuke, and the guard nodded quickly and disappeared to perform the task.

Wulf unlocked the door quietly, stood watching darkly for a moment as the prisoner thrashed futilely, and then slammed the cage shut.

Noah's body jerked sharply and he was instantly awake, chest heaving and eyes darting as he tried to reconcile dream and reality.

Wulf leaned casually against the wall, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. "Sleeping well?"

Noah shivered, struggling to calm the unnatural fear that had pierced his dreams, rising like bile in his throat and tightening like a vise about his chest.

"Slayer of Kings, traitor Captain… Now you desert your own offspring. Your dreams _must_ be colorful ones, Basch… I wonder that you ever sleep." Wulf's lips smiled, but his eyes remained cold, and his voice was brittle.

Noah's eyes lifted at the last charge. Wulf smiled and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "Imagine it…a _secret son!_"

_Son…Faolyn. _Noah's fists clenched. He was not aware of the blood that stained his hands. He calmed his mind with reason. Faolyn was safe-kept. He was in seclusion with the old man. The young one was beyond the reach of swords and chains.  
He took a breath. And another.  
Yes…the guard's words were only careless drivel. The reference to a child was meant to feel him out for weakness. It was an attempt to challenge a response. It meant no more.  
…_How_ could it mean more?

Wulf's voice was muted, his stance vigilantly tranquil as he watched the prisoner. "Faolyn, wasn't it?"

At this, the fear that lay smoldering at once flamed and ignited raging fury in Noah's heart. He ignored his body's reminder of pain and lunged with a vicious, guttural cry toward the young guard who stood observing just outside his reach.  
The mighty forged chains that dreams had made invisible came now to substance, and even such a burning will and spirit were of no match. Noah's angered movements only managed to reopen the wound across his side.

"Careful...Captain." Wulf unsheathed the vicious sword, and looked down its blade lovingly. "What would your dear son say?"

Noah stood and reclaimed what dignity was left to him. His breathing was hindered as spasms of agony threatened his consciousness and demanded his concentration.  
He looked past the sword into the face of the young, antagonistic soldier.  
The blade meant nothing. He feared no pain for himself. "If you harm the boy…"

What? What would he do? What could he do?  
Nothing. And in the eyes of the knight who turned to look on him that reality was clearly known.

Jaiger appeared at the cell door. A young guard with scant armor scattered across his bare shoulders and chest walked in his shadow. Jaiger came to stand at Wulf's side. He turned his eyes with careful thought upon his second. "Is all well?"

"Of course." Wulf's face was bland, his words mild. Jaiger was not deceived. He shot Wulf an irritated glance as he took in the prisoner's bloody state.

Wulf smiled and shrugged mildly. "You have my word. Never touched him."

"Of course not." Jaiger returned wryly. To the guard with him Jaiger gave instruction. "Fetch the physician, and see that he's attended properly.

Wulf left the cell and Jaiger was close behind. Their voices were first clear and then faded as they walked away. "Explain."

The physician walked the hallway as the two talked, Jaiger's face revealing the shock that Wulf had first felt. As the doctor entered the cage the two briskly made their way to the room wherein the boy and old man were kept. And when the physician again negotiated the passage he met the young Captain and his second upon their return.

Jaiger entered the cage quietly, leaving Wulf leaning upon the wall outside, and stood staring across at the captive. Questions were written plainly in the expression of his face. Yet silent he remained for a long while and the prisoner the same.

The young Captain was somber and guarded. "It seems your _son_ is here. At this time he is safe. Anything beyond this moment will not be my decision to make."

And then he was gone with a clatter of the strong gate.

Wayrah lay quietly in the bed he'd been assigned. He had been glad when the airship had taken Dimas and Gisela away. But of course the guards remained, and so too his cage.

Why they were yet in this borrowed home, in a strange land, he did not know. But as in all things, it was not his place to question, and he did not dare.  
But he was yet free to wonder, and, under the guise of oblivion, to observe.

One thing he knew… The General hated it here…which at once endeared the place to his own heart.  
And yet in truth there was little even he could find to redeem in this circumstance.  
All pretense of adventure and shred of hope for stolen excitement had fallen when the festival players had been scattered and he had been herded and penned.

He heard again the sounds of a craft nearby, and his heart shook. He'd thought they'd be away longer…

Stifled cries reached his ears, and he felt dread and pity but did not stir. Long ago he'd learned that she would not accept his aid should he attempt to give it.  
…And that they would both suffer if he should interfere. It was the same with her when it came to his plight.  
He stayed and listened through walls too thin.

The back door creaked, and the sound of boots upon the wooden floor reached the boy's ears.  
Wayrah pulled his arms tight around his own body. But these were not the sound of Dimas' steps…

"Gisela?" A man's voice whispered softly, and the crying calmed.

Wayrah inhaled deeply, relieved. He cared not who it was as long as it was not the General.

Tomorrow he would be a spy, or a roving thief. While Dimas was gone, for pretense there was no great necessity. The need was now for other things.

The boy's thick, dark lashes fell over his tired eyes as his body relaxed, his mind began to unwind, and he at last simply slept.


	26. Memory

Basch stalked the corridor, the Judge Magister's cape lashing in fitting motion to his dark mood.  
He did not need Noah to tell him of Dimas Apolinar's threat!  
He did not need Noah to chastise him on the fulfillment of his duty, either in Archadia or in this place!  
He did not need…  
His fists so tightly clenched that they shook.  
His heart raced. His nerves were wired.  
His chest rose and fell heavily, as if he'd met with some great effort.  
He had all but wrenched the staff of joined blades from the young Captain's hands, and if any words had been exchanged in the passing Basch could not recall them.  
He must settle himself.  
He could not return to Larsa in such a state.

Basch forced his mind to duty, to the cause, to his mission here.  
His hand steadied, and his heartbeat began to regulate.  
He would speak to Ashelia tonight, and do his part to settle the dissention between Empire and Kingdom.  
He inhaled and exhaled deeply, concentrating on the upcoming negotiations.  
He would speak honestly with her. Between them it should be no other way. He would trust that she would respond likewise, and they could come to an understanding that would benefit both peoples.  
What would it take to sooth her hurt and appease her wrath?  
Would she demand justice, as she had said?  
…Would it mean the death of the Kingslayer…?

He did not wish to think on it.  
But the possibility…it must be considered.  
If it was to be……how would the deed be done?  
His body physically reacted-his stomach tight, his chest aching.

Ashe would not surely ask that her enemy be made to suffer...  
She was strong and resolute, but she was not unmerciful.  
Justice would override revenge.  
The execution…  
The execution would be swift.  
Surely, this would be the case…  
If it must be at all, let it be so, Basch prayed.

…What if her ladyship asked that _he_ be the one to perform the task?  
Surely she would not ask this of him... But if...... Could he do this thing?  
What of Noah...  
…Would _Noah_ wish it so?

Basch struggled to breathe as visions of what might be passed his eyes.  
He banished the unbearable images, and found others in their place.

"_I do wish you wouldn't fight." She chided her five year old twins gently as she bandaged the gash on Noah's thin shoulder. _

_Basch watched his brother be cared for closely, wincing with every panged flinch of his brother's eyes. _

"_We weren't fighting, mama. Not really." Basch insisted soberly. _

"_No?" Her eyebrow lifted, and her expression revealed her disbelief. _

"_We were just pretending! Basch is the Knight and I am the dragon!" Pained distress had been forgotten as Noah's eyes sparkled with excitement. _

"_Really? A dragon?! My!" She turned from them, covering her laughter in busying herself with bandages. _

"_Yeah, the knight was gonna cut off the dragon's head, but I made him miss!" Noah had been so proud._

_Amusement fled and shock and horror opened wide her eyes and mouth. "No, no, no!!! Absolutely not!" With one hand she firmly lifted Basch's chin, and with the other she pointed a stern finger in Noah's face.  
"There will be no cutting off of heads-or any other body part! Do you hear me?!" Her displeasure was strong enough to startle her sons. _

_Basch dropped his eyes, lips trembling. Noah bit his lip and looked at his brother sorrowfully. _

_She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "Tell me, how does a dragon fight a knight? Surely not with a sword?" Thankfully the sword in this case had only been a hefty stick._

"_Oh no. I breathe fire." Noah answered more slowly this time. He was looking at her carefully, unsure, waiting for the verdict of her opinion._

_She hung her head and placed her hands upon her hips. "Boys, never ever play with fire… I've told you and told you-"_

_Noah interrupted. He was so eager to clear up the situation. "Oh don't worry, mother. I can't really breathe fire." His disappointment in this fact was clear. And then his face brightened as he enthusiastically boasted. "So I attacked him with my fangs instead!" He hunched his small shoulders and bared his teeth viciously as he curled his little fingers into claws. _

_She gasped and her hands flew to her forehead. "You what?!" Exasperated she whirled from one son to the other. _

_Basch ducked his head and remained silent. His hand jumped to cover a place on his bare forearm. _

"_Basch are you okay? Let me see!" Her tone was sharp with worry._

_By force she removed the small hand, revealing an uneven, mouth-shaped circle of blood-red puncture marks. The in- between was already badly swollen and revealing first signs of deep bruising. When she touched the wound Basch flinched.  
_

"_Noah!!! How dare you bite your brother?!" She glared angrily to him, and Noah hung his head. "This is nothing to be proud of, boys!" She looked from one to the other. "I am very disappointed in you both!" She turned from them, this time gathering the reins of her displeasure. _

_The twins looked to one another, greatly unsettled, abashed, and ashamed. _

_When she addressed them her voice was calm but unusually firm and absolute. "If you cannot play nicely together you will not play together at all." _

_They started and shared a look of alarm and dread. _

"_Noah, go to the attic and stay there. Basch, linger until I clean your arm, and then go to your father's study. Say goodnight to your brother now, boys. You will not see one another anymore this day."_

_There could have been no greater punishment.  
Noah had fled to the attic, trying desperately to hide the tears that freely flowed.  
Basch had cried silently upon his father's couch, the cushion dampened by his grief.  
And still their mother had not relented. _

_She had brought them each supper in their separate quarters, saw them readied for bed one son at a time, and tucked them to sleep in their isolation. Her kiss had been gentle and her eyes sad, but still she had not withdrawn her sentence. _

_With the morning light she had invited them to sit with her in the den, one on each side, and had asked them quietly how they enjoyed their time alone. Neither had been able to speak. And more tears had washed down young cheeks. _

"_Then remember this sorrow." she had admonished. "Remember, Basch, Noah, what it feels like to be alone. And take better care with one another." _

Basch reached out and steadied himself against the wall as his head swam. "Noah…" The pain threatened to overwhelm him.

"You are unwell." Larsa's voice was quiet, his hand gentle upon his guardian's arm.

Basch steadied himself and drew a determined breath. "Forgive me, lord Larsa." Basch's voice was his own, low and deep with emotion. "I am...better." His chin raised and his shoulders set. He forced a quiet smile. "Shall I accompany you to the gathering?"

Larsa did not answer. He only continued to sadly watch the man who had become his guardian, his advisor, and his friend. "This is unfairly difficult for you. You need not say otherwise for my sake."

Basch looked away, but wherever he turned he seemed to see Ashe's pale face, Noah's shadowed eyes, Larsa's gentle sadness… "It is difficult for us all, my lord. But we will continue, as we must." His smile was grim, but his eyes were sincere.

Larsa quietly agreed.

The sharp report of multiple pairs of armored boots sounded upon the hallway. Judge Magister and Emperor turned in unison to see the Rozarrian delegation enter like an ominous wind.  
Dimas Apolinar turned his head and his obsidian eyes directly met Gabranth's gaze with challenge and threat.

Noah's desperate warning repeated in Basch's ear.  
"Stay close, Larsa." Basch spoke so quietly that the words were all but lost between them. "I do not trust this man or his reasons for coming."

"I trust your judgment, and will do as you say." Larsa assured his protector soberly. "But there is a need for care. Whatever our suspicions we must not betray our distrust and by haste salt the wound between our Empires. Already there is enough ill will in the air."

One of Dimas' men belatedly entered the main hall to join his companions.

Basch watched closely as with his guards and entourage Dimas was ushered into the Queen's presence. "Yes, quite enough, my lord…"

---------------------------------------------

Strings and keys and pipes wove a deceptive atmosphere of cordiality through the spacious, richly set area.  
The Lady's advisors and their partners rose as the foreign parties were announced.

Basch watched Dimas and his people closely.

Perhaps Noah, as Judge Magister Gabranth under Gramis and Vayne, knew particulars of Dimas' life that had not come to Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg's ears. But Basch knew much.  
One did not survive years caught between the fighting of two major enemies without knowing the players.

Dimas was favored in the company of the old Rozarrian guard. Even as the family Margrace had begun to effect change within the Empire, balancing power away from the military state, Dimas had risen to the front.  
Those such as the smoothly diplomatic Al-Cid worked to even the scales of influence, and yet Dimas Apolinar was evidence of the continued strength of a powerful and disgruntled faction that remained.  
He was a marionette. But always he was a violent one, and held on a bloody string.  
How much control truly did those who would bridle him indeed now have?  
Only as much as he would continue to yield perhaps?  
If he should try to break free, what amount of destruction might he cause? Or would those he served simply break him and take another in his place?  
Whatever the case, Dimas had grown strong and confident.  
It was clear that, unlike the guards who were so careful in his presence, he was unafraid, even in the presence of the Queen and Emperor.

Basch had heard it said the General was a handsome man. He would leave that to those who'd said it. Dimas' features were hard and sharp, his hair closely cropped, and he was tall and lean. He was handsome like a snake is handsome, and just as trustworthy. On this, though he had not said it to his brother, he and Noah were agreed.

But certainly an imposing figure was the General.  
Over a suit of aged bronze plate metal, edged in darkened steel and overlaid with lapping leather straps of gleaming white, his flowing outer frock was in reverse tone. The body of the coat was the color of darkened steel, but upon it, emblazoned in bronze, was the sign of Rozarrian leadership. The whole was stitched in decorative white lacing. His gloves and boots were the steel gray, with white decorative markings and bronze plating. Basch noted upon the white leather straps the many medals that glittered in the lighting, but was not impressed.

The opposing Empires' leaders and companions were seated across from one another, and Basch felt Dimas glaring his way. Clearly Dimas had also heard of Gabranth. …_What_ might he have heard…?  
Basch turned his expressionless gaze upon the Rozarrian General, and saw the hatred of a rival vying strongly for place. Gabranth was a threat to Dimas.  
That was not unwelcome, and it would perhaps prove useful to know.

The Castle had been not long past made into Vayne's personal offices. For much of this time Ashelia lived in obscurity as the lady Amalia. For most of this time Basch was hidden away in the endless nightmare that was Nalbina dungeon.  
No more.  
The glory of the restored Kingdom displayed itself proudly. Ripe with history and experience and surging with the will of a nation reborn, Dalmasca displayed stately nobility and spirited passion.  
The beautiful tapestries and banners and richly ornate candelabras, wall hangings, and vases full of Dalmascan plumage made a statement as to the vitality of the Kingdom, and awakened in Basch the feeling of the past.

This place…how familiar it had over time come to be.  
It would not now be hard to close his eyes and feel the sultry, sandy air, and think he'd only just returned overdue from some mission.

But then his heart stirred with pride and affection as the people bowed for Larsa and the sober young leader was given place.  
Basch fon Ronsenburg was introduced as Gabranth, Judge Magister of the Archadian Empire…  
When with Larsa it seemed ever more that the armor fit as if for him made.

Warm, flickering light danced from crystal chandeliers, and reflected in the arched stained glass planes along the far wall as they raised their glasses with Her Majesty and toasted peace. She looked at him as the words were said, and he felt the chill of irony as he drank of blood-like wine.

Ashe was beautiful. She was calm. She was gracious but detached. She was polite, regal, and cold.

As they enjoyed the nine-course meal, around the outer boundary of the expanse dancers leapt and twirled, soared and swayed, in time to the melody.  
They wore costumes of ivory, with sheer ribbons of color, red and gold and blue, floating and falling about them as they moved.  
And softy, gently, voices gave lyric to the tune.

How slowly time seemed to move.  
Basch had no appetite for food and no wish for empty, diplomatic chit-chat.  
Time and again, Dimas attempted to engage him by some slyly turned phrase. Basch refused.  
Larsa asked the right questions, showing the right amount of concern, the correct touch of humility…  
Basch smiled to himself, for he knew that some would think it all an act. He knew otherwise. The boy's heart was true.

He looked up and met Ashe's gaze on him. His lips sobered, and her eyes turned away It was then her expression changed.

Basch followed the line of her vision, and saw the young Captain, who had stood inconspicuously apart, now listening with a creased brow to one of his men whispering insistently in his bent ear.

Jaiger turned his eyes to his Queen, and then spoke quickly to the knight and disappeared, leaving the other in his place. Within moments three additional Dalmascan soldiers had quietly come to join their companion, spacing themselves at different strategic locations within the room.

Throughout, the talk had continued, and yet all within the room were aware that something was at work.

The young Captain returned and took his place, but his face was troubled and his feet were restless.

Ashe stood, smiling graciously. "Thank you all for coming." It was a clear invitation to leave. An invitation that while spoken in kind, conciliatory tones from lovely lips was as good as a command.

The few of her inner court that had been in attendance now gave their respects to their Queen and filed out.

Dimas' eyes sparked with anger, and his movements were a little too abrupt to hide his displeasure. And yet he rose, and bowed sharply. "Your Ladyship. I look forward to our next meeting."

"Give my regret to your wife that she was not able to join us. I hope she is soon well." Ashe offered her hand for a kiss.

"Yes." Dimas smiled, and there was something cold and cutting in his gaze. "Thank you kindly, Your Majesty." He dipped his head, and straightened stiffly. His eyes slid to Larsa Solidor. "It has been pleasant to make your acquaintance, Emperor Larsa." He turned to the Judge Magister. "Gabranth." His eyes held a shine of cruelty.  
With a flick of his wrist he ordered his men to him, and they made together for the exit.  
A clatter of armor and heavy steps, and like a storm he and his men were gone.

"Jaiger?" Ashe ignored Basch and Larsa, but the young Captain had not forgotten their presence.

"Your Majesty…" He bowed.

"Yes?" She was impatient, through with the prettiness of diplomacy, and ready for the truth.

"We have taken on a different set of guests."

--------------------------------------------

"Useless waste of time." Dimas threw off the layers of his costume, and took up his more comfortable weaponry and attire.

The guard at his side considered the view from upon the Castle wall. "…Not entirely perhaps. There is something I chanced to see that I believe you may find interesting…"

-----------------------------------------------

"Thank you, my dear." Zargabaath nodded to the familiar servant who brought his late evening meal, and she blushed lightly and dipped her head before leaving the Judge Magister to his solitude.  
She had been barely grown when he had first come to this place. Now she was a woman with children nearing adulthood.  
Time passed too quickly. Young shadows faded before the eye had ever truly marked them.

Zargabaath sighed and dipped a thick slice of bread into the creamy soup, and lifted it to his lips. It was quite good.  
His eyes were on the book in his other hand, a very rare edition he'd collected upon his journeys many years past. Better it became with every read.

The soft air wafting across the balcony ruffled through his thickly matted silver hair and stroked his skin. The coolness refreshed him, and he breathed deeply in relief for the winding down of the day.

He had inspected the troops on the Alexander, given commendations, and reviewed intelligence from the officers beneath him. He had spoken with Oran, who had returned to give a status report on lord Larsa and Gabranth's journey to Dalmasca as well as the situation along the border before he returned again to the skies. And even now, with judgments suspended for the time, Zargabaath continued diligently to research cases pending from the war's end.

He breathed deeply, and closed his mind to the day.

Night brought with it the welcome suspension of at least a few of the season's trials.  
The Senate would go to rest in the soft luxury of their downy beds, and their relentless contention would sleep with them. That was no small thing, and for it his gratitude was no less.

As well the complaints of the people must now take pause until the morning. These grievances by in large were settled by those beneath him in rank and authority, and yet, inevitably, at least one of these otherwise capable officers, as yet uncertain within their new responsibilities, would seek him out for validation or advice on some paltry matter. Thankfully they would not come tonight.

He held the book carefully as he reached across to take up the goblet and drink from the wine. The bottle was from his own collection, a favored year. A year of his own spring…  
It was in fact the year when he had first been accepted into service of the Empire.

_A proud year. A proud day. And just a shade bittersweet.  
It was goodbye to one life, and hello to another.  
He had kissed the cheek of his mother, clasped the hand of his sire, and said a fond farewell to his dewy eyed beloved. In turn he had gained an insatiable mistress-the Empire. _

A smile slipped across his wearied face, and he turned eyes beginning to show lines of experience to look across the dusky landscape. How pleasant was the view of the Imperial City. Even now she stood strong and dignified amid the dusky haze. All was quiet.

He took another sip.

…_Yes, it had been just past two decades now since that one day that would define his life. And yet it was one he did not regret. _

He looked back through the arches and saw the soldiers standing in place. …Silent too it was within.

…_Which was not to say he had no regrets…  
The Empire was a willful and fierce mistress, and he had tasted his own blood on her lips. And yet, whatever course she took, however it weighed upon him, always he had risen to defend her honor, and taken her shame as his own. _

He looked to the table where he sat solo.  
…Once he would have often dined with others.

Upon rare occasion it would be Gramis with whom he took his meal, called to counsel upon some matter. Some nights, especially in the earlier days, it would have been his Judge Magister colleagues, discussing and debating, as was their way. Other times it was with Senators or Imperial advisers, or even perhaps merchants with whom the Empire was involved in some business arrangement. But now, with so many gone, here he sat, alone in this strange stillness.  
Never had he been given to idle talk, or to argument for its own sake, but he missed the camaraderie.  
Sadly, the ease of it had been in large part missing for a good many years.  
Shame and tension and fear had divided their house from within.

He finished the bread, and drained the cup, leaving the rest of his soup and meat untouched. No longer was he hungered.  
His free hand strayed to the helm that lay upon the table there. Gently laying aside the book, and with it the promise of rest, he pushed his hair into a semblance of order, rubbed his eyes, scratched the trim line of his beard, and took up the armor.

His guards fell in step behind him as he walked, and then stood a respectful distance behind the Judge Magister as he paused at the doorway of Drace' empty chambers.  
He could picture her during their early years, young and full of wildfire, determined to prove herself worthy, as he too had been. She had learned to direct the flame, but had died with no less passion. Without wavering she had finished her race.  
Her chamber had been emptied by Vayne's command. Surely now all that was left had come to Larsa.

Other rooms in this sprawling wing stood void of the trappings of their former selves.  
Ghis' and Bergen's respective quarters had been turned into offices, while Zecht's rooms had somehow become something of a museum and library, these for his and Gabranth's use upon Larsa's word. The space was put to good use, but the walls echoed now only with silence and memory.

Some of these had come before him. Some after. And some of the names and memories were more dear. But all had held place here.

Was it so long past…it did not so seem…when young Larsa had gurgled and cooed and toddled along these hallways? His nursemaids had flocked about, Drace vigilantly overseeing, with Gabranth keeping watch from the shadows.

Before Larsa it was Vayne and his guardians who wandered these halls discussing the meaning of all things interesting to the boy's bright, thirsty mind.  
Before Vayne others had brought life to the palace.  
The days were as fleeting as they were faithless.

Who can foresee the end of the path that is taken at the start of the thing?

Who could have known when lord Gramis was boldly leading them without hesitation or regret that regret is what would be reaped by all?  
Who could have guessed that of all his sons the youngest and most vulnerable would alone remain standing to inherit the rule of power?  
Who would have known that the proud Magistry would be reduced to two?  
Who could have envisioned this day?

Zargabaath resisted the urge to check again on Haleine Ranel. _"Give the woman time to recover, Zargabaath."_ He told himself. _"And do not be so foolish as to antagonize the physician who must see to her care."_

He spoke with the officers on duty, and obtained their assurance that all was well for the Palace, within and without, before he took to the free air, his knights in tow.

Somberly and sedately the small company traversed the streets. Now and again he was met by a citizen who would offer a dip of the head in regard for his position. They looked on him not with fear but with distance, and he did not resist this view. Not altogether was he certain of his colleague's newfound faith that mingling with the people would bring good things to pass, although he was curious to see. He did not himself covet the people's approval, but neither did he crave their dread.  
His duty was to the Emperor and to his task. To be Judge Magister was to embrace the Law. Experience throughout the years had cautioned that while the Law might condemn or save, above all, it was an impersonal thing, and brought separation. Young Larsa wished to mate the law with mercy. Could such a marriage endure?

Carefully Zargabaath considered… He had not been repentant, at the edge of the violent conflict's end, to see his own death waiting as a sacrifice for the Empire's honor. With Lord Vayne fallen and Lord Larsa's efforts to bring an end to the fighting in peril, somberly he had calculated the cost of his life, and those of his men, and found it to be a price he would steadfastly pay. It had not come to it then, but if called upon this night he would answer the same, and so fall that the Empire might hold her head high.

He chuckled inwardly when he realized to where he had made his way. House Ranel stood before him, as empty and cold as the quarters of his former colleagues and friends.

"_Zargabaath"_...he chided himself silently..._"You must be growing old, wandering the streets, heeding the call of the sweet, gentle past." _

_His mother had said he was born an old soul with the eyes to match it.  
Early in his teen years he'd been mistaken by many for his father. Perhaps it was on this account that he felt prepared to serve and die for his country at an age when others were dreaming of freedom and love.  
And why now often he himself forgot the not so aged number of his own years._

_Between the two, he was Senior Judge Magister in time served under House Solidor, yes. But, in truth, though he was called the Elder by many, and looked on as fatherly by members of Imperial court, he was not but a very few years past his remaining colleague. _

_He felt neither young nor old.  
The hands of the clock seemed to spin out of control, the sands of the hourglass unhindered sift, and yet he felt unchanged in so many ways from the boy he'd been that day so, and not so, long ago. _

He was here…perhaps there was something Gabranth had missed. Granted, an unlikelihood. Gabranth was thorough upon matters of the law, and no less strict with himself than others.  
Still, two heads and such…

He knocked as insurance against unlikelihood of the home being occupied by the missing son. The door swung open beneath his armored knuckles. The Judge Magister calmly stepped inside, his pair of Knights moving with him-bound by duty and loyalty as a willing extension of their commander. At the slight lift of his hand the cord was loosed and the two remained to stand guard at the entrance of the home.

Light from the street shone through the opened door to reveal evidence of the recent violence. The steady shift of Zargabaath's hand awakened the glow of the lantern to expose further destruction.  
Yet another quiet and lonely place of solitude and ruination… Yet another home long past broken from within.

Inar Ranel's disgrace had been brought upon his own head. There was none other to fault in the matter.

Zargabaath walked on through the house, holding in one hand, by a horn, his elaborate helm, observing the remainders of a life tainted by self-inflicted hurt.

Time had not changed the balance of his judgment in the law, but it had worked some change in the heart of the man. Though still he judged Inar as the unwise author of his own shame, he was not now without compassion for all that had come to pass. He had learned the cruelty of the moment that so swiftly might change everything.

Zargabaath's eyes fell on the dark blade that stood propped in the corner. Sublimely fearsome and mesmerizing. Worthy of a Judge Magister. The work of the gifted son, no doubt…  
Inar's redemption, if he had been able to see it thus.

The sound of a pistol cocking turned the Judge Magister's head.  
There she stood, a young woman with striking bronzed hair and lovely features. Most fascinating was the dark and deadly weapon in her hand.

She held it as one familiar, but Zargabaath remained calm and unruffled.

"Do you threaten a Judge Magister? Think carefully before you answer."

Her eyes showed her surprise and unease. "I thought…"

One of the guards had left his position, hearing voices within, and now moved stealthily toward his commander and his assailant.

Her eyes suddenly hardened. "I was well taught to use this weapon, sir. And if I am to be shot down, then perhaps you might consider, with my finger on the trigger so, if I am hit I will likely take you with me, by plan or by fate."

Zargabaath showed no sign of worry. With minimal movement he signed the guard to stay his hand. The knight complied, though less willingly than before he'd been.

The young lady seemed troubled, considering her situation. "I meant you no harm, Your Honor. I merely saw activity here and knowing Madame Ranel to be away-"

"How came you to the certainty of this?" Zargabaath mildly interrupted.

"I was nearby when the events took place." She pointed up the street to the diner marked by her name.

"Ah. "

"When the lady was wounded, I came to assist Gab-the Judge Magister in her care."

"So it was Judge Magister Gabranth who you meant to greet with a loaded pistol. I pity him, though for myself I am much relieved." Despite his customary serious tone, his normally sober eyes twinkled mischievously.

Ila's blush was enhanced by the glow of lantern light. "No. Of course not. I only meant to find if my aid might be welcome." She took her finger from the trigger and reengaged the safety.

"I see. It is no matter, my lady Wittekind. Long have I known of my colleague's practice of frequenting your table. I can hardly blame him." As Ila shifted self-consciously, the logical Judge Magister went on gravely. "And yet such ties can be dangerous things. One wonders that he did not consider this."

"He did." She offered the weapon as evidence. "I was trained in its use and care by an able teacher."

_He had been unsettled when he gave her the carved box as a gift, and had watched uncomfortably as she admired the craftsmanship of the fine container. Gabranth's eyes had never left her face as she lifted the lid.  
She had been shocked, truly, by seeing a pistol nestled upon the fine pillow there. Her fingers had traced the lines of the weapon in puzzlement before she had turned questioning eyes to his. There had been no mistaking the deadly seriousness there. _

Zargabaath watched her thoughtfully. "Yes. I am certain the instruction was proficient. …Might I escort you home, lady Wittekind?"

She was taken back, but not disagreeable.  
Silently the calm Judge Magister and the warrior-merchant walked the short span of street, the knights in their wake. Zargabaath entered with her, and made a cautious appraisal of the layout for peril before he made his way again to the door. "Lady Wittekind…" His silver brows were drawn low over light eyes. "The company of power can be safety, and it can be threat. I believe our friend would prefer this weapon suffer from lack of need and opportunity, do you not agree?"

_Always she knew when danger was heightened about him, for that was when his visits to her business would cease. Weeks would pass wherein she did not know if he yet lived, though his favored dessert remained a house specialty in case he might happen by. Once she had made the mistake of betraying that she cared too much for his fate. It had been nigh a year before he had again found her door._

"Continue to keep a close watch. It is good you do. And yet I ask that you not seek to resolve the matter on your own. Such is the task of those of us who have sworn our lives to duty."

He lifted her hand to his lips, gave a somber smile, again replaced the helm, and exited to the street.

He spoke in low tones to one of his knights. "Remain awhile and see that she is untroubled."

"Yes, Your Honor."  
The knight took his place in the shadow across the street from Ila's home as Zargabaath and his remaining guard moved on together down the silent street.

--------------------------------------------

"Ah…Madame Ranel. Yet you sleep, and despite my efforts your pulse remains weak. The why of it I wish I could explain. Certainly the Judge Magisters will demand an answer be found. What simply is, for these, will never do."

The physician's heavy sigh was followed by the sounds of vials and medicinal tools clattering. And then there was silence until his shuffling footsteps brought him to the room of the young soldier.

Pleased as he seemed while examining the nicely mending wound, the physician became sour as he looked into the boy's eyes and felt his forehead. "Your injuries heal. And yet you are wan and fevered. Have you been resting as I ordered?! Have you been having enough to eat?"

"I try, sir." The young soldier sighed wearily. "I feel so weak, always abed…"

"Perhaps then you should get some exercise. Perhaps that after all is what you need." The physician was relieved at the possibility. "Sleep tonight, and tomorrow I will make arrangements."

"Thank you, sir." The young man smiled quietly.

There was a soft glow in the dimly lit room.

"Here, have a good rest." The physician nodded goodnight, lowered the lights, and left the room.

The glow lingered.


	27. Dare the Open Door

"A boy, some twelve to fourteen years by the look of him." Jaiger's somber eyes slid down to the young Archadian ruler as if trying to gauge one young face by the other, and then turned back to his Queen. "And an elderly man, a gentleman of some nobility by his bearing."

"Yes?" Ashe frowned impatiently.

"Your Majesty…the boy…he claims to be the son of the _prisoner_."

Ashe's finely groomed eyebrow lifted, and her gaze slid toward the Judge Magister who swallowed up Larsa's shadow with his tall form. "Is that so…? I was not aware Basch fon Ronsenburg had a son."

Basch ignored her dry words, his gaze sharply focused on the young Captain's face. When he turned his eyes to Larsa he saw the young brow was lightly drawn above narrowed eyes.

"Bring them to the Throne Room. I will meet you there directly." The Lady coolly instructed her knight, turning again a guarded eye to the familiar stranger at Larsa's side. Basch betrayed no emotion or thought.

Jaiger bowed swiftly and disappeared.

"You will of course both join us." Her passing words were a directive. The contemplative young Emperor did not object.

She paused at Basch's side. "Does the _Kingslayer_ have a son, Judge Magister?"

Larsa interrupted with calm insistence. "I feel certain there is an explanation. Let us hear it ere we judge."

"Yes." Ashe smiled gravely. "Let's."

-----------------------------------------------

Jaiger nodded to Drystan and entered.  
He at once took a quick account of his _guests'_ placement.  
The old man sat sleeping in a generous chair, reading by lamplight a book he'd taken from the aged bookcase. Light snoring filled the room, one meant for use during moments of repose by members of the Queen's court.  
The boy stood before a large painting, staring into the starry background as if he could escape through the canvas into the night. At the sound of Jaiger's footsteps he turned and met the Captain's gaze with intently accusing eyes.

So pale…

"Are you well, boy?" Jaiger asked softly.

Faolyn did not answer, but his strange eyes followed the Captain like a wild thing watches the hunter that makes it his prey. Jaiger had taken a step forward, but recognized the increase of tension in the boy's frame as he grew nearer and stopped.

"I mean you no harm. Faolyn? Is that your name?" The young Captain's smile was kindly and his stance was nonthreatening, but Faolyn yet watched him with marked distrust.

The old man snuffled and stirred, rousing from his wearied rest. "Wh-" He yawned, blinked, and stretched, his aged joints popping. "Ah. Oh. Stay young son, and avoid the unpleasantness of age."

"I'll remember that." Jaiger's reply brought Tarachande to alert.

"Ah! So you have returned! Finally! An old man grows older waiting for the young." Embarrassed and affronted, the old man's indignation soared.

"Sir, if I could?" Apparently, Jaiger noted, the old man's belligerence was not limited to Wulf.

"Well?! Go on if you've something to say!" Tarachande spoke and held himself with a certainty and confidence.

Here, Jaiger noted warily, was a man accustomed to being held in serious light.  
"Her Majesty, Queen will see you."

"Hmph. I do hope we have not inconvenienced anyone."

Jaiger ignored the sarcastic tone. "First I would like to have the physician see to the child. He appears unwell."

Tarachande's weathered face darkened, and Faolyn started, panic in his luminescent eyes.

The old man lifted a hand in the boy's direction, his eyes never leaving Jaiger's face.  
"_I_ am a physician, young man. And I tell you the boy is sound. He is only tired and distressed, as you might somehow bring yourself to appreciate."

Jaiger studied the boy thoughtfully.  
Perhaps the old man was right, and worry was the sum of it… The boy was young. And the truth of inner anxiety was written plainly upon his youthful features.

The Captain's senses were troubled, and yet there was nothing he could pinpoint, nothing to which he could definitively call to name the source of dread.  
It was not for him to keep the Queen waiting without good reason.

Jaiger sighed as he reluctantly silenced his own misgivings. "I must ask you to be patient. The Queen will hear you, and make a judgment to your request. You must abide by her decision. Is this understood?"

"Of course." The old man nodded. The boy was still.

"And you?" Jaiger insisted with a soft smile. "Do you understand?"

"Faolyn." Tarachande's low voice prompted firmly, and the boy's defiance gave way.

"I understand." His young face was wholly miserable. Jaiger was moved with sympathy for the child.

"Her Majesty _will _hear you. Speak honestly."

Faolyn cautiously met the Captain's eyes, a touch of hope rising in his heart.

Tarachande saw this register upon the boy's face and groaned inwardly. There was something more at work here than the young Captain would say. The child, he feared, was in for bitter disappointment.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Faolyn's spirit shrank back as he was escorted into the Throne Room.  
Never had he even imagined such things as he'd seen here.  
The meager shack where he and his brother had endured their early years was modest next to Tarachande's comfortable home, and yet that was nothing set next to this place.  
Such intricate architecture and richness of surroundings he'd never known.  
And yet by the magnificence of the Castle he was not impressed.  
A part of him resented the daunting formal display that seemed orchestrated to separate him from his goal.  
There was only one purpose on his young mind.  
He squared his slender shoulders and set his jaw.

Tarachande viewed the columns and arches, hand-carved tiles, sculptures, crests and carpets, paintings and tapestries, and all that came with the history and position of this place, with quite a different eye. Inwardly he was aware of a pining ache, and as he passed through stately corridors the old man breathed deeply and savored the sweet scent of grandeur.

And then he saw the play of emotion upon the boys face and in his stance.  
Reality returned. The air grew hot and gritty again.  
Reaching out Tarachande patted Faolyn's back, hoping against hope that good would somehow grow in this desert land.

Shepherded into the Queen's presence, Tarachande tugged the resistant boy to the pretense of a bow.  
The old man had bent his own head to join in respects when a mere word spoken in a young voice raised his head in shock.

"Uncle?"

----------------------------------------------------

At the utterance from Larsa's lips Ashe turned swiftly to look upon her companions.  
Larsa's face held a hint of fulfilled expectation, as if his questions had found answer in the revelation of this man.  
Basch's face was grave, but upon his furrowed brow was less surprise than deliberation as he looked from the old man to the boy and then away.

Irritated, Ashe left the throne and descended the steps to address the pair.  
Jaiger moved silently with her.

The old man smiled wryly as he nodded to the boy who stepped to face him. So serious, so stately and noble of bearing. There was in his eyes the steady light of gentle honesty that hearkened to the boy's dear mother. Such was pleasant to see…  
"Ah. I fear I owe you explanation, lord nephew."

"We do indeed have much to discuss, uncle." Larsa replied quietly. And then he added, "Her Majesty, Queen Ashelia, my uncle, Sir Jolon Alasdair."

Faolyn's eyes darted at once to the old man, and he separated himself physically from his side, guarded and edgy in his confusion.

"Your Highness." Tarachande bowed to the young Queen, and then held a hand toward Faolyn even as his eyes moved on to his nephew's face. "Long has it been since I have heard that name spoken aloud. I find I have no more use of it, lord nephew. As you know, they call me now father Tarachande. It suits me as well as once it did my grandsire."

"As you wish."

Larsa felt Faolyn's eyes on him and turned to meet his gaze. Faolyn dropped his eyes and wrapped his arms over his chest defensively.

"If explanation is to be given I will hear it!" Ashe stepped forward, hands on her hips.

"Go on, uncle." Larsa gave his consent softly.

"If not for this child here your friend would indeed be dead and buried."  
Tarachande moved slowly to the boy, and draped an arm fondly about the slender shoulders. Faolyn did not resist. His eyes were cast down. "By chance or by fate, the boy allowed some light mixture to fall upon the wounds. Seeing signs of healing, I worked to mend and bind and restore in as much as I am capable, leaving the rest to nature, medicinal help, and the will of the patient. He came to us much abused, I remind you, and many times I feared all our efforts were for naught. But this I will say… The young man is almost as strong as he is stubborn. …Almost."

The corner of Basch's mouth tugged upward, and his expression softened. He felt eyes upon him and turned to see the boy watching him with a strange expression. Caught, Faolyn's eyes returned to the floor, and after a moment's study Basch again yielded his attention to the boy's guardian.

Larsa too smiled gently, sadly, before he sobered and continued. "Why did you send no word?"

Tarachande sighed. "Ah, yes. For any trouble this has caused you have my truest regret, lord nephew. But by the time the warrior was recovered enough to begin to consider his position you had become established and _others_ had taken need of him." Tarachande's eyes flitted to the boy at his side, and his meaning was understood. "_Perhaps_ I led the young man to a certain conclusion in the matter of your wishes, believing it to matter little, as he was, after all, considered quite deceased." The old man's eyes turned to the Judge Magister at his nephew's side, and understanding dawned. "I see…" He spoke reflectively, slowly. "You have made suitable replacement."

Larsa's lips tightened and his calm eyes darkened to anger as his guardian and protector grew grim and turned his face.

In the silence the Lady Ashe took command.  
"This briefing is all well and good for you, lord Larsa, but it effects no change on my position. Your _friend_, as it is put, took the life of one of my own citizens. Do you forget?"

Basch physically reacted, frustrated. Jaiger saw and frowned thoughtfully.

"That's a lie!" Faolyn was suddenly animated, angry and fierce. "He was trying to stop an attack!"

Judge Magister and Captain turned their eyes to the boy.

"The boy speaks the truth, and I wonder at your haste to proclaim judgment. But do let us remain calm, Faolyn." Tarachande spoke mildly.

Faolyn ignored the old man's advice. "Please, just let me see Noah."

If Jaiger had not been preoccupied with ascertaining the threat posed by the troubled man-child he would have more strongly reacted to the name given in the boy's request. As it was his eyes shot to his Queen's face, and his pulse skipped a beat when he found no sign of surprise written there.

Faolyn's eyes flitted toward the door like a thing caged. "I must see him!" His demand was stronger now.

"Boy, please. Calm yourself. This does you no good." Tarachande watched in concern as Faolyn's grief began to reveal itself.

But Faolyn's eyes changed, the glassy sheen turning to a living glow. And every aspect of his features seemed set in contrast, crisply defined and strangely vibrant though by the moment he appeared as well to grow more and more wan.

"The child is distraught. If you torment him further he may succumb to grief." The old man cautioned softly, and then his eyes grew dark beneath a lowered brow. His words were ominous and low. "The outcome will lie at your feet."

"Why should I heed threats from a child?" Ashe raised her chin proudly.

"My lady, think of it not as a threat. Think of it as a plea." Larsa interceded quietly.  
He turned and addressed the Queen as an equal, his own youth erased by the authority in his manner.  
"It is _my_ wish that you allow this meeting. For the sake of our friendship, _I_ ask it."

Ashe scowled, and turned aside.  
She caught Basch's gaze, and saw the pain that he had so careful shut away so many times.  
She turned back to the young leader.  
"As you wish, Larsa. Jaiger, bring the prisoner."

The Captain turned his eyes around the room, taking in all the players as he made his way to heed his mistress' command.

Ashe turned a steeled gaze upon Larsa Solidor. "Mark me well. Before this is through, for the sake of our _friendship_, lord Emperor, there will be a price to pay."

Larsa looked to the shivering lad, a boy not far from his own age, now finding comfort in his own uncle's embrace, and calling for a man who had been his own shield most all his years...  
Emotion stirred and spilled past the boundaries of his heart.  
A calming shadow fell upon him, and he looked up to see Basch's understanding eyes upon his. In his gaze he read the now-familiar reassurance, _"I am here."_

_--------------------------------------------------- _

"Ow! Dagnab it! Keep that beast away from me!" A meagerly armored warrior put a hand to a fresh wound upon his naked shoulder, and the Chocobo, beak stained red, seemed to smile with pleasure at his pain.

Under a spray of moonlight and aided by crystals throwing dancing light through votive cups scattered along the ornate frame, the men circled around the captive creature. He was held by a half-dozen ropes in a dozen armored hands. Restrained the creature was, but not tamed.

Armor rattled amidst a fury of feathers. The flying of massive, clawed feet collided with shields and deflected swords.

"Should I shoot it?" A wary soldier along the perimeter held a bow taut.

"Are you kidding me?! This isn't your average run-of-the-mill bird, kid. All it takes is a _real_ man to ride it!"

"Wasn't that boy riding him?" The mild offering of a more direct and less cooperative member of the group.

"Heh, heh, heh..." Chuckles and murmurs rose within the circle.

"This is ridiculous. Let him back out into the garden, and fix him up a place there. He was probably looking for water or a cool spot is why he came in here."  
Silent agreement with this statement remained so.

"Shut up, idiots. Get rope around his feet before he escapes!"

"He can't escape here. It's closed in." The speaker turned his gaze to the glass roof and walls, held by beautiful iron-work. Others followed his gaze with their own.

"…By glass walls." The wry addition brought the sensitivity of the situation to light.

"Yeah, uh, do you think we really oughtta be doing this here? He's gonna wreck the plants..."

As the quarreling increased, a few of the more thoughtful ones among them took time to consider whether or not breaking a wild thing in the midst of the Queen's grand conservatory was the proper action.  
But the author of the scheme made the call.

"I have rank here, and I say hang the flowering bushes. This beast is worth it."

"I suppose Her Majesty would be pleased if we get it so she could ride the creature about…"

"Yeah, yeah. The Queen. Sure, sure. Just get a move on."

The Chocobo strained angrily, and broke two of the six ropes, his feathers ripped away and skin torn by the friction.

"Look out!"

Those left holding the ends of the disconnected rope fell, scattering planters and showering themselves in dirt and blossoms. One of the two tumbled into a shallow pool of water, and felt the slimy scales of an exotic fish brush over his stomach. He, who had so bravely fought in the war, shivered violently at the strange sensation and jumped from the man-made pond, his chest decorated with water lilies.

The erratic movement further frightened the offended beast, and the creature slammed his body into a stone column, toppling it and bringing another pair of soldiers to their knees.

"Hang on to him! Get to your feet! Don't let go! That's an order!" The shouted demand carried loudly through the open spaces, and the men held tightly to their charge.  
"Well, get in there and help them!" The leader ripped the bow from the hands of the reluctant warrior beside him, and pushed him toward the fracas.

"What in the world is going on here?! Whoa! Watch out!!" Wulf grabbed hold of the soldier and dropped to the ground, rolling with his companion's body shielded by his own, out of the way of the fierce talons. A large stone planter took the brunt instead and shattered under the impact.

"Thank you…sir." The soldier caught his breath as Wulf brought him to his feet.

"What's going on here?" He examined the ruined section of the beautiful greenhouse, his expression becoming increasingly angered. Finally he looked from one face to another. Some eyes held his, some shifted away. One set was defiant. No one moved.

Wulf motioned the soldiers who were holding the beast to stay still and calm.

Silvery white feathers ruffled and a few floated through the air as the beast eyed this latest enemy.

"It's okay, boy. It's okay." Wulf spoke in a soothing tone, and took a step forward. "Open the door when I'm in between. Shut it when he's through."  
The command was given with the same peaceable quality. A soldier readied.

The Chocobo lunged angrily toward the new aggressor, and Wulf dodged sharply to avoid the beak and claws that aimed viciously toward his unarmored head. Two claws of one large foot sliced through his cloak, shredding the material.  
Wulf's sword was moving, and there were those among the group who thought the beast was destined to fall. Regret at the loss of the prize crossed more than one face.  
The blade slipped between the creature's neck and the ropes that bound him, and with the force of the beast's movement the strong threads severed upon the razor's edge of the sword, spilling the handlers and freeing their captured trophy.  
The door opened, and the powerful Chocobo fled into the spacious walled garden, fluffing his feathers and prancing victoriously.

Wulf's hand went to his arm, and felt the blood that soaked through the tatters.

"Why did you-"  
The leader of the group, seeing his efforts spoiled, began to dissent, but the sword turned his way and his tongue stilled, though the fire in his eyes did not die.

"Silence." Wulf was in no mood for argument, and the astute among them heeded.

One member of the group attempted to stealthily back away. Without looking his direction Wulf growled, "Stay." He did.

"Anybody want to explain this?"

"Be quiet, boys. We don't have to explain anything to him, and he knows it." The soldier defied Wulf brazenly, and some shuffled, some held their breath, some looked away. "If you have a problem with it, _Wulf_, you go get our Captain. _Our_ Captain."

Wulf's features became dangerously calm, and the atmosphere shifted.  
"I'll let the Captain know you'll be looking forward to a long assignment patrolling the border, Bernal."

Some of those unhappy with being associated with the insubordinate soldier's actions were amused by the rebuke, but the worry over their own fate muted any overt pleasure. Friction in the air remained high.

"All of you. Get this place back in order. Everything will be as it was to the last blossom, even if it means you have to go to Cerobi Steppe and dig up replacement plants." Wulf's voice was gruff.

One young soldier, an unwilling participant pushed into the goings-on, looked about at the wreckage and cringed. He'd almost rather go back into battle than go to the Steppe and face the unnatural beasts that lurked there.

"Last chance before everyone here is written up. Anyone have anything to say?" Wulf's eyes fell on a soldier with whom he'd shared many hours of duty. He had always been trustworthy and diligent, and their rapport had been smooth enough.

The soldier held his gaze. "No, sir."

Wulf saw the regret in the soldier's eyes and understood. Whatever the price to himself, the man would not betray the others. Wulf accepted the decision with unspoken respect.

"As you wish."

The men were silent until Wulf disappeared from their number, waiting until they lost sight of him in the darkness.

"Get to work, kid." The instigator now made himself their supervisor, ordering the young members of the company to the menial task of sweeping and clearing debris.

The soldier Wulf had last addressed stepped forward, and delayed the activities, his eyes intensely fixed upon the troublemaker. "That's enough from you, Bernal. Keep quiet, and get to work."

"Oh. You have a problem with me, Shyre?" The soldier challenged.

"Yeah, I do. Because of your carelessness and insolence we all pay."

The others pulled back, and instinctively formed a circle around the two.

Bernal was incensed at being made a mockery before his peers. "It would have worked if that cur hadn't come charging in and interrupted."

"Mind your tongue! Wulf is-"

"Not one of us! Why should we answer to him? He's only here to be the Queen's pet."

The words carried through the darkness as Wulf walked. He heard clearly, but his expression did not shift, nor did he return to interrupt the exchange. He simply continued on, making his way to the heavily secured door that would take him into the dungeon. Inside, he refortified the door, and leaned heavily against the wall.

---------------------------------------------------

"What happened to you?" Jaiger's voice opened Wulf's eyes, and he pushed away from the wall quickly.

"Nothing. Nothing. Why?"

Jaiger nodded toward the floor at his feet, and Wulf looked down to see dark droplets of crimson upon the stone.

"Oh. That. A scratch. Nothing important."

"Wulf." Jaiger's voice was gruff. "What were you doing?"

"You don't want to know. Believe me." Wulf gave a half grin. "Later we should probably discuss a few changes in assignment."

"Is there trouble?" Jaiger asked cautiously, wondering what kind of danger Wulf had fashioned for himself. And then he noted the shadows within his friend's eyes.

"Eh, nothing that can't be handled. What about with you? Everything okay?"

Jaiger looked to him soberly and remained silent.

"You can trust me." Wulf spoke quietly. There was a touch of melancholy in his voice.

"I do trust you, Wulf. Like a brother." Jaiger reached out to check for himself Wulf's wounds. Though he made no sound and his face showed no emotion, Wulf's body betrayed him as Jaiger felt his friend's muscles tighten under his touch. Two identical gouges deeply ran along his bicep."

"You need to get that looked at. Drystan will be capable help. Don't concern yourself." The import beneath Jaiger's mild words did not slip past his sharp second.

Wulf shook off the attention to his injury and straightened, question in his eyes and voice. "With what don't concern myself?"

Jaiger met his eyes, considering, and then slowly spoke. "The Queen requests the prisoner brought to the Throne Room…to see his son."

"Ah." Wulf's eyes never left his Captain's. He nodded thoughtfully. "Forget Drystan. I'll help you."

"You're certain…?" Jaiger looked worriedly at the torn, bloodied cloak, and then trailed off as Wulf tilted his head, his lips twisted in a wry grin. His tired eyes flashed with humor and relieved his Captain's mind.

Jaiger laughed. "Okay then. Okay."

-------------------------------------------------

"Look at him, Captain." Drystan nodded toward the prisoner as the three approached the cage. Dirt streaked by sweat stained what could be seen of the prisoner's upper body. His ribs were covered in bloody bandages.

"Mm-hmm. Someone remind me… Whose fault was that?" Jaiger shot a sideways glance at his second who returned a guilty smile.

"We should clean him up, you think?" Drystan continued uncomfortably.

The gate rattled, and the door swung open. Wulf felt the prisoner's piercing gaze.

"Yes, I do. But we haven't the time. The Queen awaits, and I'll not keep her for the sake of the prisoner's pride."

"…What about the boy?" Wulf turned suddenly to Jaiger, his back blocking the prisoner's view from their conversation. His voice was strangely bothered. "Should he see his father this way?"

Jaiger was grim. "No… He should not… None of this is as it should be…" He was quiet and reflective, but then his voice strengthened, and his eyes met Wulf's directly. "Remember the crime. What do you feel is his likely fate?" He looked knowingly from the prisoner to his second, and spoke matter-of-factly. "At least he is yet alive to see his son." His jaw hardened. "At least they will get to say goodbye. It's a privilege greater than many infinitely more innocent have received."

Wulf nodded vaguely, his eyes unfocused as his thoughts moved elsewhere.

Jaiger motioned to the prisoner. "Stand."

Noah rose without hurry. He had taken his vulnerabilities inside and hidden his fear behind steel forged in smoldering anger and sharpened with silence. There was the air of danger and strength about him once again that kept the Dalmascan's watchful.

Inwardly, however, Noah's mind was drawn to the words of the young Dalmascan Captain, _"…they will get to say goodbye… …a privilege greater than many much more innocent have received…"_

Once he had been innocent…  
Once he…and Basch…and their mother…had said a lighthearted goodbye that they had believed was only temporary, and waited for the hello that did not come…

_It was a ritual he had enjoyed. Seeing their father off, chasing after the Chocobo drawn cart, he and Basch waving until only the dust remained, but it left them sad and forlorn.  
The anticipation of his return had been altogether a different thing... _

_They were nearing the end of their thirteenth year…that day…_

"_Your father is coming home today!" Her smile was bright, her eyes sparkle with expectancy.  
Throughout the day, as so many times before, she glanced often down the road.  
Finally she found reason to work in the garden, though her eyes were not upon flowers or weeds.  
And then she made up some pretense of gathering fruit from the orchard, though already she had plenty…  
All of it was just so she would be close by when he came… _

_And they were no less excited than she. _

_When their feet had been smaller and the grass had seemed so tall, they would wade through, as far as they were allowed to roam…farther if they dared… They'd run to the end of the road and look for the dust and listen for the noise. They'd even watch the sky to see if birds were scattered into flight.  
Now they ventured further, and climbed the tallest trees, looking for the telltale signs of his homecoming. _

_Always when they'd glimpsed his Chocobo-drawn carriage in the distance they would race home, each trying to be the first to be heard yelling out the good news at the top of their lungs. _

_When they were small things, and slight enough to manage, he would swing them into his arms, and they would wrap gangly legs around him or climb onto his back and upon his shoulders while he laughed.  
And then they'd help to unload the treasures he'd found… _

_Always there was some special gift for each he'd left waiting. Just to ease the pain of separation if only a little…_

_Sometimes night would come before he did.  
She would let them stay up to see his return, but inevitably small eyes would tire and they'd fall into slumber. This only meant their father would be the one to wake them, and, after a good long while catching up, would see them off to bed himself. _

_The morning would come with laughter and enjoyment as they were all reunited once more.  
The years saw them grow too big to climb on his shoulders, but the affection at his arrival never changed…until…_

_He was wakened by a gentle nudge, and he opened his eyes in excitement, thinking to see his father's face. Instead it was his brother, and he found them lying sprawled out upon the rug, covered in a throw from the couch. They were still just where they'd fallen asleep waiting the night past. _

_The house was too quiet and cast in shadow. But light spilled in from behind closed curtains to tell them it was day._

_He asked the question on both their minds. "Why didn't they wake us?" _

_Basch looked back at him with widened, cautious eyes, and shook his head. _

…_Between them they had known even from that moment…Something was not right._

_They walked together through the house, checking the dining hall, the kitchen, each place they expected to see their parents on a morning after their father's coming. They found no one there, nor the strewn gifts and samplings of goods that were the norm after such an expedition._

_Too old to feel comfortable holding hands, the brothers walked as near to one another as possible up the stairs to their parent's bedchamber. Side by side they stood in the door, staring at the wilted petals their mother had put upon the pillows the night before. _

_Noah turned to Basch as his brother turned to him, and his brother's eyes were as wide as his own felt. Basch looked to be holding his breath and Noah forced himself to release his own. _

_Basch barely parted his lips and managed no words, but Noah shook his head and swallowed hard in answer to the question that might as well have been screamed. _

_Fearful and longing to find their parents and be reassured, the boys reversed their steps, each, without thinking, keeping a hand touching the others shoulder or back, needing the comfort of closeness._

_Out the door and into the yard, dampened by a wet season, it was easy to see by the tracks that someone had come and gone again. At first this was good news, but then they saw that the footprints were not his…_

_Back inside they looked down the hallway…the last place left to check…  
Somehow they dreaded nearing that last door, as if they knew by heart that what hope they had would die there…_

_Which one of them pushed the door to their father's study open so they could step through?  
Which one of them dared to speak to the lady, kneeling by the couch, surrounded by his things, weeping… "Mother?" _

_Her eyes lifted, and their color was obscured by a supply of tears that continuously replaced each drop that overflowed. One hand she put to her trembling lips. The other she raised to show them the broken timepiece…It had been a gift from his own father…He always carried it…_

_The men had brought his father's body home, silent, still, and cold… _

_A bizarre accident… A storm, a frightened Chocobo, a broken wheel, a loose stone… Such a senseless, tragic thing…_

_They were sorry. Each and every one. They said it over and over again, for what else was there to say...? _

…_If they had known…he'd have given his father a proper farewell…he'd have said more important things while they could still be heard…_

Jaiger's voice guided him back. Drystan was holding a garment. Wulf was staring into the distance, uncharacteristically still.

"Drystan will help you on with a clean shirt. We will do that much for you. But don't think to try an escape. Remember the boy and his companion are surrounded by the Queen's Knights. Any trouble you cause will fall upon them. Remember."

"I'll not forget." Noah's voice was thick. "But if I find you've harmed the boy-"

"No one has harmed the boy!!" Wulf's eyes snapped to him angrily. "Drystan. Hurry it up, will you…"

Jaiger watched with thoughtful eyes.

--------------------------------------------

Noah walked the hallway, flanked by Wulf and Drystan, Jaiger supervising by following a few steps behind in case the prisoner attempted to flee.

Truthfully Noah could see a half-dozen ways right here and now to try for, and likely complete, a getaway. He turned his head and looked at the young soldier, Drystan they called him. In most of the possibilities this boy had to die. Necessity.

Drystan made no sign of being aware of the prisoner's thought, but Jaiger's footsteps came nearer and Wulf's grip on his arm tightened. Noah turned his eyes forward, steps never slowing.

"What are you doing?" Wulf snarled quietly.

"Thinking." Noah replied as he turned his eyes toward the guard. The hand that held him was bloodied, as was the arm… A swift movement into the wound to knock him off-balance… Drystan would come in… Take the boy's sword… One stroke. Stab, slash. Finish Wulf. Two down. Jaiger-

"Don't." The warning was clear, and Noah could sense Jaiger's blade readied to drop him at the first sign of struggle.

Noah smiled grimly and shrugged, attempting to play this scene as if it held no grave consequence for him. His heart knew otherwise.

"You know, I don't think the clean shirt is going to help…" Wulf whispered maliciously. "Do you stain your hair with dung?"

Noah didn't hesitate. "Do you cut your hair with the serrated edge of your sword?"

The barbed banter unsettled Drystan, who cut his eyes nervously toward the prisoner and then back over his shoulder toward his Captain. Jaiger laughed softly, and Wulf growled.

Noah was glad for the distraction. His instincts were screaming at him to fight, telling him he was Judge Magister Gabranth, by experience if no longer title, and that this alone evened the odds. But, despite his escorts' fears, he had no intention to escape, even if they had not been holding Faolyn and the old man now as leverage.  
For Larsa, his duty, and to pay his debt…he would stay.

Still, every step he took was more difficult. Would it be easier if this was the walk to his death? Perhaps…

His heart was telling him to delay. Every footfall brought him closer to the pain in Faolyn's eyes, the sorrow in Larsa's…  
And Basch would be there to witness it all… But perhaps that itself was his just due.

"Keep your head down." Jaiger ordered him quietly every time they approached a sentry.  
Secrets… Always secrets…  
Noah did as he was told.  
Secrets must be kept.

Up steps, down hallways, through doorways…

And then Drystan stopped and stepped back as his Captain stepped forward and took his place, moving to escort Noah into the chamber.

"Drystan," Jaiger instructed, "Wait here. Let no one pass through unauthorized."

When prompted, Noah did not move. His feet would not. They wished only to go back to the cage and save Faolyn from this cruel reality…to save Larsa…to save Basch………to save himself from this long goodbye.

"Come on." Wulf's voice was low, and Jaiger's eyes were on him. "Your son is waiting."

And yet the heart would not be silenced, and threads too strong to deny pulled him through the open doors.

--------------------------------------------


	28. Splintered Doors & Damaged Shields

"Noah!"

Faolyn's voice greeted him as soon as he passed into view. Noah watched the boy jerk free of the old man's grip, running toward him.

Basch too saw the boy tear away from his elderly keeper, and stepped forward in immediate alarm.  
If the Captain believed him a threat… If the aggressive soldier there reacted by instinct…

Noah felt Wulf begin to move, and he heard his own voice rise. "No, Faolyn! Wait! Wait!" He held his cuffed hands before him toward the boy and tensed, ready to throw himself between the child and the sword in Wulf's hand.

The boy continued. The guard's sword arm flexed.

Basch heard the frantic note in his brother's tone, saw Noah raise his bound hands, and knew his fear was strongly shared.  
The Judge Magister put a hand to his sword and took two long strides, narrowing the distance, readied to defend the child should the Dalmascan knight pursue hostility.

Noah angled his body to shield the boy.

"Wulf. Stand down!!" Jaiger's order was absolute, and Wulf at once fell back into a defensive stance.

The Captain's order slowed Basch's own feet. The soldier had heeded. The situation was under control.  
He breathed deeply, relieved.

Faolyn threw his arms around Noah, mindless of the danger, and Noah bowed his head and hunched his shoulders to lean protectively over the boy. "It's okay, Faolyn, it's okay…"

Basch watched as the child embraced his brother, and turned his head to see Larsa also observing with a wondering expression. How must this setting appear to the eyes of the young Emperor… Basch again moved near. If his presence could bring comfort it was the least he could give.

"Please, my Lady, have him unchained. I give my word, he will not attempt escape." Larsa turned to Ashe and spoke quietly.

Basch smiled softly at Larsa's request. Again, as so often, Larsa had not been thinking of his own needs.

Basch turned his head to see Ashe, brow furrowed in grim thought, staring at the scene. She looked briefly to him, her judgments hidden from his eyes, and back to Larsa.  
"At your word, lord Emperor."  
She spoke briskly, her tone implying some agitation of spirit, and then continued to her men, "Jaiger, Wulf, see to it."  
With this she retired to her throne.

----------------------------------------------------

Noah heard Larsa's request, and lifted his eyes to see the young Emperor.  
Lord Larsa was all they had hoped. Drace… She would have been insufferably proud.

Basch's eyes had moved on to his brother's, and he noted the quiet pride, the reverent gratitude, the shade of bittersweet wistfulness that like clouds crossed Noah's bruised face and gentled his dry lips.  
Something within his own heart called with some message undefined, and as swiftly sank to silence, leaving once more the weight of heaviness as the elusive echo stilled.

"Step away, please." Jaiger did not physically disturb the boy as he made his gentle request. Wulf made no move to interfere.

Faolyn's arms tightened, but Noah moved to signal a change, and nodded as Faolyn looked anxiously into his face.

The boy fearfully backed away, moving half the distance between Noah and the old man.

The cuffs were unlocked and fell into the Captain's hand. Jaiger gave the prisoner one last warning gaze and stepped aside, clearing the path to the boy.

His fair hair was wild, tangled and tousled and corded, but still it looked as soft as down. His body was lean but his clenched fists accentuated the muscle tone of his bare arms.

Did he look older? Was it grief that had brought the change?  
The young face was tight with tension.  
Sorrow struck Noah deeply for the sake of the boy.

Faolyn watched as Noah's face grimly studied him. He saw the darkness pass through his eyes and his brow crease.  
Suddenly the boy was uncertain. "Are you…are you angry with me?" His whispered words were laced with disappointment and shame.

Noah was startled.  
Faolyn did not see. His eyes were upon his feet.

Basch watched as his brother closed the short distance between himself and the boy, and wrapped his bruised and chafed arms around the young shoulders.

The raw emotion upon his brother's face caused his own fists to clench. But then tenderness warmed his heart as the boy was lost in the embrace.  
He remembered what it was to be held so… To feel the safety and warmth and assurance that comes of love…

"_My boys!" _

_He stepped from the carriage, arms open wide.  
Noah was waiting beside Basch, fairly dancing with anticipation.  
Basch stood still, but felt as if he had a swarm of bees in his chest.  
Each was anxious to say their hellos, neither wanting to be second.  
But somehow their father always had room for both.  
Smothered to his chest, smelling his familiar scent mixed with that of the journey, all seemed right. _

"_Love!" He'd caught sight of her, waiting upon the steps.  
Reluctantly the boys stepped back to let their parents have their moment. _

"_And so the vagabond returns." She gave him a teasing grin, running her long fingers over his rough beard and tangled light brown hair. _

"_How could I stay away?" He leaned in to taste his wife's lips. _

_Noah scowled in revulsion and Basch felt nauseous. _

"_Go on. Unload your spoils while I see if there is anything left in the cupboard that your sons have not already devoured." She pushed him away, and turned for the door, as if she'd not been thrilling to the expectation of his coming. …As if she had not spent the afternoon meticulously preparing all his favorite things… _

"_But love…" He followed her, playfully nuzzling her neck as she laughingly refused him. _

"_Bathe first. Then we'll talk." The current beneath her dry words and his amused laughter had been enough to bring color to the cheeks of two growing boys leaning over the brink of understanding, and the twins had escaped by wandering away toward the load of goods. _

_His longer stride had caught them before they'd gone far, and he put an arm around each shoulder, gathering them beneath his arms as they walked.  
"So-My Sons, your mother calls you… Have My Sons been well behaved while I've been away?"  
He looked to Basch, who nodded sincerely, and then to Noah, whose response his brother could not see but must have closely matched his own. Their father's lips had twitched with humor. "And have you been gentlemen? Think now, before you speak, what will your mother say when I ask her?"  
Basch looked around his father, and met what he could see of Noah's face trying to read his own.  
Their father laughed heartily, and the question was withdrawn. _

_A half-hour carrying and stacking what boxes had not been diverted to the main storehouse by their father's workers, and the three had worked up a sweat and appetite. _

_As they surveyed the cartons filled with the bounty of the venture their father became reflective.  
"Someday soon…" he promised, "…When you are but a little older…you will both come along on my journeys."  
He was quiet far too long, his expression unreadable as he studied them, and they shuffled worriedly, moving closer to his side. But then his eyes twinkled. "After all, one day I'll make your mother happy and give up roaming. And then all of this will be in the hands of you two rascals." He smiled with great affection, and the brothers had been nearly overcome with pride and delight. Seeing their excitement, he laughed, winked, and pulled them again into his embrace. _

_The dream had been dear. The promise real enough to touch it had seemed. _

A soft, muted sound reached his ears. …The boy was crying. Shadows of grief lay upon his brother's face.

He turned his eyes to the Queen, seated upon her proud throne. She was staring down at some indefinite spot between them all, her face drawn in fierce concentration of thought.  
As if she felt Basch's eyes, hers lifted and stared into his face.

"Captain Jaiger," Ashe's voice was suddenly tired, strained, "You will make the appropriate arrangements for our guests." She turned her words to her Archadian ally. "Emperor Larsa, we will speak more upon the morrow."

"As you wish, Your Highness." Larsa nodded kindly, and Basch bowed.

"I will escort you to your quarters, Your Highness." Jaiger moved with intent to guard his Queen safely to her rooms, but Ashe lifted her long, slim hand.

"No. Stay and see to our guests." Ashe waved him away.

"My lady-"Alarm lit his eyes.

"Jaiger!" Frustration etched her brow, and the Knight's lips tensed with frustration of his own as he resigned himself to her will.

Basch watched her go with grimness of spirit. He had hoped to speak with her alone. The situation at the border must be resolved with haste…  
He wished to settle this turbulence...to quiet this restlessness without and within...

Basch turned his eyes to watch his brother still comforting the boy.  
...He had not counted on this…

Larsa was quiet, and then suddenly made a request. "I too would like to retire, Captain, if you would be so kind. And uncle, perhaps you would accompany me? I covet a moment of your time."

Basch stepped forward, and Larsa added, "Stay and help the kind Knight in what way you can, Judge Magister. I will be safe within my chamber and in my uncle's company."

Larsa left Basch's side, and moved to stand before Tarachande. "Let us talk, uncle."

"Of course, lord nephew." Tarachande's eyes slipped toward his young charge with concern, but he released the boy to Noah's care and followed Larsa.

The young Captain was clearly less than pleased at having been separated from protecting his Queen now only to be saddled with seeing to the foreign ruler's comfort. Still he was quick to oblige.

"Wulf." Jaiger spoke only his second's name, but the meeting of the eyes, the tone of the voice, gave caution and direction.  
Wulf nodded brusquely, and moved to stand guard by the massive, closed doors as the Captain led the young leader and elderly gentleman toward the side corridor through which Ashe had made her way.

"This way, lord Emperor."

-------------------------------------------------

Ashe walked past the rows of guards, and through the doors held open by her soldiers.  
As they closed behind her, she also closed her tired eyes and covered her face with her hands.

There were no tears to shed this night, and the tide of rage had ebbed. She was drained and wearied.

That Dimas Apolinar was untrustworthy and dangerous was most certainly true. She had caught the anger in his eyes more than once when he did not get the desired result from her. And she had heard the malevolent sniping directed at Judge Magister Gabranth, though Basch had not seemed to prompt any such behavior. Dimas had been more than a little displeased when she had abbreviated their meeting… She would need to be most cautious in dealing with him from now on.

She removed the clothing and adornments which had taken so long for her servants to perfect, and slipped into something cool and soft for sleeping.

The elderly gentleman, Larsa's uncle…Sir Alasdair was it? …He and the boy had been most insistent of _his_ innocence in the matter of Meret Denali. Increasingly, and most unhappily, it was appearing that this was so.

She would not deny she wished greatly for his guilt in this case against Dalmasca's citizen. If his hands were stained with innocent Dalmascan blood she could pursue her wrath without pause and none could silence her hand.

The possibility of innocence was a complication in her relationship with Archadia, and an unwelcome obstacle as she looked to bring justice to the Kingslayer.

And not least, it gave cause to question the honor of one of Dalmasca's most respected families.

She washed her face free of scent and shade and sand.

And there was Basch…  
No longer could she be angry with him. The fire of wrath was lost to her when she looked upon him no matter how she fought to hold it. The weariness she felt she also saw in his eyes. He was wounded…and the blade was now in her hand.

She pulled a jewel-handled brush through her silken hair for the seventy-eighth time, lost count and set it upon her marble vanity.

Fate was cruel.

It had taken her father, her husband, and countless innocent souls. It had separated her from those dear and delivered into her hands the object of her hate. It had promised anew the opportunity to slake the undying thirst for vengeance with the cup of justice.

She stared unseeing into the mirrored eyes of her reflection.

And then it had thrown up a wall of an alliance she must protect, set before her one dear whose needs she could not easily turn aside, and given over a child whose grief she could not help but know and feel.  
Cruel, heartless fate.

Ashe slipped between the sheets with a prayer and a sigh.

Tomorrow…tomorrow this would end… It must…she could endure no more.

-------------------------------------

"Thank you." The young lord smiled kindly upon the Captain as they parted, and the soldier's face softened.

"Of course, lord Emperor. Do you require any further assistance?" It was difficult to be unhappy with the young Archadian ruler.

"That will be all, thank you, Sir Jaiger."

Jaiger smiled and bowed, leaving the young man alone with the elder.

"Sit, uncle. Rest. You appear wearied." Larsa was gracious.

The elder man took up a goblet of wine, and settled into the comfort of a luxurious, high-backed chair with a sigh.  
"Thank you, lord nephew. It has been a trying time, I admit."

"You worry greatly for the boy." Larsa's eyes were thoughtful, serious.

"Yes. I do." His voice lowered, and his eyes slipped toward the heavy doors. "Greatly…"  
And then the man once known throughout the hallways of the Imperial Palace and court as Jolon Alasdair met the young Emperor's eyes. "But not for the child only. I believe we share a concern for the man, if I am not mistaken, sister-son."

Discontentment found its way into Larsa's tone. "If you had only revealed these circumstances earlier, Uncle, I am confident I could have averted this crisis and saved us all from this grief. The Queen of Dalmasca is not unkind, but her Kingdom has already once by our hand been darkly betrayed. She is not willing that her throne be so used again. That she takes this secret as deceit and evidence toward some devious intent, can one blame her?"

"Hm." The old man laced his fingers beneath his chin. "In your words, as in the attitude of our friend, Noah, if such you call him, I see a tapestry woven with intrigue."

Larsa stared, pondering, into the distance…as one decades aged.  
"Gabranth he was called. Judge Magister Gabranth he was titled by my lord father."

"I must say… When it comes to Judge Magisters I notice a striking resemblance between the past and the present." The old man inserted mildly.

"Noah fon Ronsenburg he was born." Larsa continued softly. Slowly he tread a path around the perimeter of the room.

"Ah." The old man lifted the goblet to take a sip, and Larsa silently stopped his pacing and waited.  
" …Ah!" The goblet ceased its path to the old man's lips, and its substance was in danger of being lost to the royal floor as the aged and weary eyes widened with dread understanding.

Larsa made his way and took to the chair opposite his aged uncle. His form seemed slight within the great piece. And yet his words were not those of a child.  
"He was my father's keen eyes, my own trusted shield, and a most deadly weapon used in the hands of my lord brother."

The old man's face flexed with pain and grief. "Vayne…"

-----------------------------------------------

How long did he stand beside the doors opposite the Dalmascan guard, watching…trying not to watch…unable to resist…drawn to the sight of his brother comforting and calming the boy?  
The reunion was a tender one but difficult.

Basch saw the tension upon Noah's face as he attempted a smile and the pretense of some cheerfulness to mask the direness of the situation.  
Did the boy also see beyond the mask…?  
Faolyn looked long into Noah's face and buried his head once more against the strong chest.  
…It would seem so.

The day had been long, and the night showed no likelihood of ease.  
Ironically, Dimas Apolinar's presence had done much to revive the strongholds of Basch's mind as his own worries had fallen to the importance of protecting Larsa and defending Lady Ashe.  
The uninvited onslaught of fear and anxiety that had threatened him at the sight of his brother was still present, but it had fallen to some place deep and silent within.  
The doors of his heart had been splintered, but they were holding.

"I have no need of you here, Judge Magister." Wulf's voice was a hushed rumble. The guard never turned his head.

"I did not ask." Basch returned bluntly. His face was emotionless.

"Heh." Wulf gave a slight laugh, and Basch cut his eyes to the side. The soldier's hard lips were twisted in something of a smile.  
"I notice your Emperor is quite concerned with the fate of our prisoner."

"My Emperor is concerned with the peace of our people, yours and mine." Basch responded in a neutral tone.  
The feeling he denied himself this sullen knight seemed to foster.

"Don't speak of _my_ people." Wulf left his station, striding with a violent motion across the wide expanse of floor as if trying to shake some ghostly foe at his heels.

Basch followed him with his eyes, made curious by his reaction.  
The slightest mark of a shadow caught his eye.

Young Faolyn's elderly companion passed into the hall, flanked by the Dalmascan Captain.  
How troubled had suddenly become the face of Larsa's uncle… …Where was now the young lord?!  
These two thoughts came simultaneously to Basch's mind, and he walked quickly toward the pair, passing Wulf, who had stopped at the sight of his Captain and their guest.

"Where?" Basch's voice, the roughest side of his brother's velvety growl was directed at the young Captain.

Jaiger did not need to question the Judge Magister's meaning. "Emperor Larsa is in the royal guest-"

The Judge Magister pushed past the young Captain.

"A moment, and I will escort you, Judge Magister."

"It's not necessary."

The words drifted down the passage behind the Judge Magister's disappearing form.  
Jaiger frowned after the Archadian officer who strode so definitely through the Dalmascan corridor and passed out of view.

Wulf came to stand at Jaiger's side. "Should I go after him?" His hand was on the sword at his side, and a glimmer of expectation sparked the gold in his hazel eyes.

Jaiger's jaw moved as he ground his teeth against the irritation he felt, but he shook his head, took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply. His words were heavy with irony. "I'm sure he knows the way."

The fire in Wulf's eyes died, and a shadow of reservation slipped through as he studied his Captain.

"Sir Alasdair-" Jaiger addressed the aged gentleman.

"Father Tarachande." The old man's voice sounded thin.

"Father Tarachande, I am instructed to provide lodging for yourself and the child if you would accompany me."  
Jaiger put the Judge Magister's actions aside for the moment.  
"Wulf, see the prisoner back to his…quarters." The young Captain avoided reminding the boy that his friend, or father as the case may be, was to be encaged.

But Faolyn pulled back from Noah, looking up into his face with fretful eyes. "Please, Noah, I don't want to go. I want to stay with you."

Again Jaiger's jaw moved, but this time it was with displeasure in his duty. Tasks such as this were some of the hardest to face. None were named hero for causing a child's grief and tears.  
Wulf's eyes deadened.

"Faolyn, you must go with them. Do not worry." Noah encouraged him quietly. He knew the fear in Faolyn's heart… The fear that if separated they would be lost to one another forever… It was in his own as well.  
But the boy must go. He could not stay.  
This was where he must be strong enough for both their sakes. This was where goodbyes must be made.

Tarachande approached the boy, and touched his arm. "Come." His eyes were on Noah's face, and Noah saw a change there.

The boy moved abruptly, colliding with Noah's side. Noah caught his breath and winced lightly.

The old man took note. "You are wounded."

"I'm fine." Noah smiled tensely. His eyes were sharp upon the old man's face, and he moved his head very slightly as he tried to send the message to forget the wounds.

"I will have the physician-" Jaiger began.

"As you may recall, young man, I _am_ a physician. And apparently skilled substantially beyond your royal healer. …Or do you deny enemy captives proper care by intent?"

"He is being cared for, I assure you." But there was a hint of guilty uncertainty in Jaiger's eyes.  
Wulf looked away.

The stubborn old man refused to heed. "Forgive me if I would prefer to see for myself. I will examine him. Prepare a clean place." He held out his hand. "Have you a piece of paper and writing tool so that I might compose a list of necessary items you must gather?"

Jaiger and Wulf stared at him slack-jawed with brows raised, momentarily staggered by the old man's brazenness. They exchanged blank looks of disbelief.

"Come now!" Tarachande waved his hand emphatically. "Are you both impaired?"

A hoarse, throaty snarl erupted from the Knight at the young Captain's side.  
"And this, Captain, is why we should have _killed_ him when we first had the chance!"  
Wulf glared at the prisoner and then stalked from the room, his angry voice resonating in the hallway as he barked orders to Drystan.  
Jaiger remained as he was, his eyes never leaving the prisoner's face.

---------------------------------------------------

Within the austere setting of the advisor's chamber, Faolyn slept soundly with his head against Noah's good shoulder as Tarachande bathed and bandaged his side with the supplies Drystan had gathered. Noah would have easily have followed the boy into rest- if rest had ever within the past twenty years been easily obtained.  
The rigid chairs were less than comfortable, but more soothing by far than being chained.  
Tarachande's hands were gentler than those of the Dalmascan physician.

Noah let his eyes close, and his breathing relax. To others in the room he might appear to be sleeping, but his consciousness was alert.

"This wound has not been well tended! If such is the extent of the royal physician's skill, your Ladyship should live in fear."

"Our physicians are quite capable. Please finish. I do have other duties." Jaiger was civil but brief.

"The task is complete."

Despite the knowledge that the time would inevitably pass, Noah felt a sinking sensation at the old man's words.

"Good." Wulf reached for the prisoner's arm, without regard for the newly attended wounds.

"And now I will see to _you_."

"What?"

Noah could not repress an amused smile at the alarm in Wulf's voice.

"You are wounded. I am a physician. Here are the necessary tools. Sit." The elderly healer spoke tersely.

"I think not!" Wulf scoffed.

"Actually, Wulf…I find this a worthy suggestion." Jaiger's voice thoughtfully intercepted the exchange, and Wulf snapped his attention to his Captain.

"Jaiger!"

Noah caught a trace of heightened tension that almost sounded like panic in the fierce Knight's voice.

"Let this physician care for your wound." Jaiger's voice was even but firm. "…And give us a valid reason for this ridiculousness." The Captain's tone and expression lightened as he attempted to sooth his friend's injured pride.

"But-"

There was something strangely unsettled in Wulf's tone, and Noah's eyes opened to study his face.  
The fear was real.

"Wulf..." Jaiger's eyes locked with those of his second.  
Wulf broke the gaze and submitted.

"If that's settled... Sit down." Tarachande was stern.

Noah discerned that the old man, incensed at the perceived mistreatment at Dalmascan hands, would not find the need for gentleness with this soldier.

Jaiger stepped in closer to oversee his companion's treatment, and helped to remove the cloak and armor from Wulf's shoulder.

Many of the Dalmascan knights, too many for their own good, wore very little armor. Some used only enhanced pieces, a rejuvenating bangle or a fire resistant medallion, leaving large expanses of naked skin exposed. Wulf was not one of these. Never had Noah seen him without his cloak and armor.

Noah watched the Knight's face as he was forced to endure the treatment. He had the look of one undergoing some demeaning chastisement.  
Jaiger shifted and Noah's eyes slipped to him. Was there a hint of apology in the Captain's eyes as he viewed his friend?

Faolyn snored lightly and leaned further from his own chair, sinking deeper into Noah's side, thoroughly fatigued from the day. Noah reacted intuitively, smiling gently and patting the boy's arm. Wulf looked to the boy, and turned vacantly away.

"What vile tool was used to carve this twofold course into your flesh?" Tarachande roughly stroked and dabbed at the deep lines with stinging antiseptics, and then began to jab and pull the skin into repair.

Jaiger scowled threateningly at the old man as his friend's face tightened. "Easy, father."

"Almost finished." Tarachande curtly assured the vigilant Captain.

"Chocobo." Wulf answered through clenched teeth. "Yours."

"No, no. Not mine. And you'll be happy to know he cares as little for me. The boy is his favored by far."

"Good…to know."

The old man began to clean up the mess of stained cloths as the young man rose.  
"Wait a moment! Impatient, young fool..." Tarachande snagged Wulf's arm and prompted him to turn. "I've yet to apply the bandage. You'll need to keep this-"

Noah ignored Tarachande's instructions to the Knight as his eyes took in the lines of stitches now etched into Wulf's arm.  
…Just under the tattoo detailing that covered his shoulder. …The shield of Nabradia.


	29. Interrupted

Once, twice in the night Larsa woke to the sound of a primal roar. The first drove him in terror from the center of the enormous bed, expecting to find Gabranth rushing in to protect him against some unexpected threat.  
But hurrying through the large suite of rooms that housed the Emperor and his guardian to the doorway of the smaller room where Basch took his rest, Larsa stopped and pulled back into the shadows to remain unseen. Basch's long legs were draped over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Beside the bed lay a vase that had been sitting upon the end table. Its pieces were scattered across the floor.

At first Larsa thought to go to him but restrained that instinct. Basch spent his days seeing to his care, and even now, with all else that assaulted the stronghold of his spirit, doubtless Basch would turn from his own needs to see to Larsa's. Indeed it was beyond possibility that this man would take blame at having disturbed his lord's repose. Larsa backed silently away to give his protector a deserved moment of private reflection in which he might not be made to hide the truth of his heart.

The second anguished call opened Larsa's sleepless eyes to the darkness, and filled his heart with sadness.  
He lay still when he heard the familiar steps quietly padding his way. He did not stir when he felt the presence of his guardian close by.  
Basch had come to see if he had wakened his charge. Larsa would give him no reason for remorse.  
The steps retreated as quietly and left a void.

They were not so different…These two Gabranths…

From the days when Larsa had stood with his head at the knee of the tall armored warrior, his small hand in that of Drace as his guardians saw to the workings of his keep, never had Gabranth betrayed any hardship he might face on his account. And yet time to time across the years Larsa had seen it there, the shadow… It was found in the somberness of the eyes, the tightness of the jaw, the steeling of the frame. Quietly and without complaint he had maintained Larsa's safety, and, when need be, swept in to intercept danger or to whisk him away from doom… These things were never explained, which was as the lines between them demanded. It had been too easy to take the familiar sacrifices for granted.  
…Until Drace's uncompromising words of instruction had been suddenly absent from his life…  
…Until the strong shield had been broken and lay dying for his sake.  
…Until Basch had taken up the familiar name to offer his shelter and support as Larsa resolved to step from the shadows of his legacy.  
This ground of hope upon which he walked had been watered and fed by the tears and blood of others.

After awhile there came a different kind of silence, and Larsa was not surprised in the least when he heard the slightest creaking of the heavy door that led to the hallway. He knew full well what was taking place when hushed, indiscernible words were spoken. The Imperial guards set outside Larsa's door would have strict orders from the commanding officer. Basch had taken up his armor and given up on sleep.

A few more minutes into the passing night saw Larsa having pulled on a luxurious black silken robe, in gold thread embroidered with the sign of House Solidor. His feet found the luxurious slippers that lay beside his bed.

There was something he must do…for them all…

The eyes of the guards widened at his appearing and appearance both. "Emperor Larsa!" Despite their shock they acknowledged their leader at once. He nodded and briefly lifted a hand. And then his eyes grew grim.  
"Which way did the good Judge Magister go?"  
The indicated direction told Larsa that Basch intended almost certainly to step outside the Castle. It was as he'd hoped.

The guards' eyes once again displayed surprise and dismay at their Emperor's resolute command.  
"You will take me at once to the Queen."

* * *

Basch ignored the glances of Dalmascan guards as he stalked the hallways and made his way from the confines of the Castle.

Beneath the darkened sky, Basch breathed deeply. The sand stung his nasal passages as it had when he first had come to this desert place. Landis had been greener, damper, and the air had carried the scents of vegetation. It had taken time to adjust. It would have taken longer if he'd not had the protection of Dalmasca, the home he'd taken in place of the one he could not protect, on his mind. But he had adjusted. He had set the past aside.  
Why was it different now? He had Larsa who needed him.

As he traversed the courtyard as one who well knows the paths, he became suddenly aware of the eyes of the Dalmascan Knights. There were several subtly circling. They stayed a far enough distance out as to not be perceived a threat but close enough to intersect if indeed he became one.

Basch looked up, where so often he had stood watch. There he found the young Captain who had taken his place at Ashe's side. The protective Captain now watched his every move.

Basch knew the Captain only meant to keep the Castle secure. He would do nothing if Basch gave him no reason. Basch sighed. He had no wish of trouble. He wished only a moment of peace.

The once Captain of Dalmasca, now Judge Magister of the mighty Empire, found a stone bench beneath a desert tree. Even at night the area was gently lit by lanterns strung intricately throughout. This had been a favored place to read…

They were still watching him.

He pulled out Inar Ranel's journal. Perhaps seeing to a little business would help to organize his thoughts.  
He turned the dog-eared pages and picked up where he left off, between appointment times and shipment schedules reading disjointed lines.

_"Haleine does not approve. I know this. But how can I refuse to aid an old friend? We were children together. She would do no less for me."_

* * *

Noah woke instantly as his ears picked up the shuffle of feet. He made no move, and the boy pressed against his side did not stir.

Where was he? It took a moment to sort out, but then he recalled and allowed himself to look about.

Wulf sat watch over them, precariously seated upon a small ledge that ran around the wall, one foot on a chair and one upon the table. There was no emotion upon his face as he spoke in a neutral tone meant not to disturb the sleeping child. The old man was absent. "Awake at last. And now this is where I get to break your heart."

Noah's jaw flexed as he met the guard's bitter eyes.

"You've seen the boy. It's time to go."

Noah felt both a strong desire to resist the young guard's intent to separate him from Faolyn, and also a strain of fear for the young one's reaction if he should be forced away. "Let me carry him to his room."

"So you can escape with him?" Wulf gave a burst of mocking laughter.

"So that he doesn't waken!" Noah returned, his voice a sharp whisper. "And then I'll go with you. You have my word."

"The word of the Kingslayer?" Wulf's eyes went flat, devoid of emotion as he watched his prisoner.

Frustration darkened Noah's brow. "If I had wanted to escape I would have done so. If I had wanted you dead I would have killed you."

The mocking look was back on the guard's face. "If that's what you want, go ahead and try it. Give me an excuse I can sell to my Captain. It might be fun seeing the damage this sword could do to you."

"What I want is this boy's safety!"

Wulf looked away. "The boy is safe."

"It would be best if you allowed-"

"Is that a threat?" Wulf's eyes went dead and his hand slipped to his sword.

"No!" Noah's voice, though angry was hushed. "_I_ am your prisoner. It is _my_ crime you wish to punish. Why make the boy suffer? What crime has _he_ committed against you?"

Wulf met Noah's eyes. "If you make this difficult I'll happily do the same for you. And that's _my_ word. Understood?"

"Plainly."

Wulf slipped down from the ledge, and waved Noah to his feet. "Well, bring him then."

Faolyn barely shifted as Noah lifted and carried him beside the Knight to a room prepared. The old man met them with concern and surprise at the door, but said nothing as Noah laid Faolyn out upon the modest bed and covered him in a sheet.

There was a touch of sadness as Noah whispered goodnight to the sleeping boy and nodded to the old man, leaving again with the guard.

The walk back to the dungeon cells was long, but words were scarce.

At the door of the cell Wulf pushed Noah in but did not bother with chains. His eyes stared through the bars.

"Thank you." Noah's simple words caused Wulf to shift uncomfortably.

"You kept your word. I kept mine. Nobody died." He smirked. "Dreary, don't you agree…what is it? Noah? Basch?"

"Perhaps I am neither. Perhaps I am both." The knight just couldn't stop testing him, as if one show of good will would break his silence. And yet Noah couldn't blame him for trying.

Wulf's jaw pulsed. "_Perhaps_ I should ask the Emperor. He appears quite fond of you."

Again challenging. But then how often had _Gabranth _played this game? Perhaps if not so often the guard's attempts would work to more success.

"You should ask your Queen. …Is Ashe _your_ Queen, Nabradian?"

Wulf's eyes were hard, and he whirled to leave. Impulsively he stopped and turned back, his voice like a razor. "I went with Rasler to defend Nalbina…with _Basch fon Ronsenburg_, you may or may _not_ recall." A bitter smile crossed his face as he viewed the prisoner. "I witnessed Basch fon Ronsenburg risk his life to take Prince Rasler from the scene, though I was helpless to reach him." Wulf's knuckles were white on the bars. "How can a man go from hero to villain in a breath?"

Noah looked back at him solemnly. "Betrayal is not complete unless it comes at the hand of one you trust." Hallfway through the sentence he almost choked on the words. They were the words Vayne had spoken when he had given the order…

Footsteps sounded down the passage, coming nearer. A changing of the guard.  
Wulf gave him one last look and was gone.

* * *

Jaiger felt his second's presence before he heard his voice, but he did not stir from his place upon the wall.

"The old man and boy are in their room. I put the prisoner back in his cell."

"Good." Jaiger absentmindedly answered his friend, his eyes never blinking.

"Jaiger…That man is not Basch fon Ronsenburg."

"Which one?" Jaiger's dry words came quietly.

Wulf turned to study his friend closely. "I was speaking of the prisoner."

Jaiger never turned his gaze. "I was not stationed with Basch fon Ronsenburg at the Castle. I barely met the man. You have more experience than I in this case."

"My own experience was brief. Still… It's as if I'm viewing an image shifted…just enough out of focus to give one vertigo. This makes me uneasy. I don't like it."

"Perhaps it is only that we wish to disbelieve… And what does it mean if the suspicion is true? The King is still dead." Jaiger spoke quietly. "And the good Captain absent."

Wulf turned to study his friend, and followed his gaze to the Judge Magister. "You have considered the same. Do not tell me otherwise. I know you."

"What do you think of _him_?" Jaiger nodded toward the figure seated upon the bench of stone.

Wulf's eyes darkened and he scowled mildly. "I don't know... Sanctimonious comes to mind."

"What was Basch like?"

"Focused, serious… Ashe was fond of him."

Jaiger was still and grim. "He seems to truly care for the Emperor…the Judge Magister, I mean."

"Yeah…Yeah, I know."

"And for our Queen." A note of dissatisfaction crept into Jaiger's voice.

Wulf shifted, and looked at his friend briefly. "I wondered if you noticed..."

Jaiger looked away. "It is my duty to notice."

They were silent for minutes on end, watching the lone individual.

Jaiger frowned in thought. "He walks through our Castle and courtyard as if it were his home, needing no direction, desiring no aid...seeking no permit."

Wulf glared ominously at the Judge Magister below. "But then he is with the Archadians, isn't he…"

And then Wulf ventured a step further. "Seems unsettled, don't you think, by the presence of the prisoner?"

Jaiger nodded and drew a deep breath. "And the Lady knows it… She punishes and rewards accordingly."

"You think then-the similarities…" Wulf motioned toward the figure reading in the courtyard below.

"Do you trust me?" Jaiger asked.

"Like a brother." Wulf echoed his friend's words from earlier that same evening.

Jaiger's eyes went from the Judge Magister to his second.

Wulf brow raised in answer.

There was no time to say more, if any more was needed.

A soldier sprinted through the archways and onto the Castle wall. He spoke a few quick words.  
Jaiger's eyes widened in disbelief and then narrowed in anger. "Ahhh! These blasted Archadians think they can have whatever they wish whenever they wish it!"

"Nothing new there." Wulf scoffed as he moved to follow, hand upon his sword.

"Stay. Watch…_him_."

Wulf nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. "As you wish, Captain. He'll not slip my sight."

Jaiger was already gone.

* * *

Larsa ignored the wary looks of the Castle guard as he purposefully breached the layers of security surrounding the Queen, boldly making his way unannounced.

The guard on Larsa's right noted when one of the Dalmascan Knights broke from the evenly spaced row, and hurried away. Larsa must also have seen, but his steps did not slow, and his soldiers steadfastly accompanied him on.

At the hallway leading to the Queen's chambers the defense strictly held. The Dalmascan knights moved to intercept this brazen child Emperor, leader of their not so long past enemy…  
Along the passage the deadly whisper of swords called, their highly polished blades glittering under the soothing half-light of the Castle.

The soldiers on each side of Larsa whirled, readied to draw their weapons. Larsa gently touched their arms, turning their hostile instinct to guarded restraint.

"Halt!"

The Captain, Jaiger Quinn, was suddenly between the Archadian party and the ornate doorway that parted them from the Queen's private chamber. His short, wavy hair, the color of chocolate lightened by cream, was matted and tufted by sweat. His sword was drawn.

"You would harm a visiting ruler in a time of peace?" Larsa's voice was soft, reasonable, but Jaiger was fierce in defense of his Queen.

"I would not think to touch a hair of your head, Emperor Larsa. But I make no such promise for them." His dark eyes sharply turned from one to the other of Larsa's guards.

The proud Archadian's were riled by the Dalmascan's manner, and, despite being well outnumbered, looked to be considering whether an attempt at slaying the Captain would be worth the price of their own lives.  
Larsa lifted his hand. "Thank you, my Knights. You may return to your station."

"Lord Larsa?" The Archadian knight's voice was ripe with confusion and dismay. He exchanged worried glances with his colleague.

Larsa remained calm. "Have no concern for my safety. You bear witness to the good Captain's promise. He will see me safely kept."

Jaiger looked suddenly as uncomfortable as the Archadians, and then his face took on exasperation. The boy was clever and quick...

Larsa nodded at his men to reinforce his command, and the soldiers hesitated only a moment longer. Larsa had given them direction. Unhappily they obeyed.

Larsa waited as they took their leave, and then directed his command to Jaiger. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Sir Jaiger. Please inform Lady Ashe that I am waiting."

Jaiger met Larsa's eyes. How innocent they looked as they stared wide up at him. Yet there in the dark orbs he saw the same stubborn determination that he so often met in those of his Queen. The Captain's lips twitched as a touch of laughter rose through his irritation. There was no reasoning with royalty.

At his indicator, the knights returned to their calm lines as Jaiger steeled himself against what was to come, and rapped sharply upon the thick doors.

Ashe was not amused. She had stirred in her sleep to what in her breaking dreams seemed sounds of explosions and rifle fire. She had turned and tossed, trying to shake the nightmare, but still the pounding did not cease. And then she wakened to find reality in the form of her Captain, apology written upon his face and Larsa Solidor at his side.

Did her Captain not consider how her heartbeat might have quickened as she left the airy covers, grabbed her flowing brocade robe, and ran to answer to his call, fearing the worst?

Perhaps most irritating, she was not at all presentable!  
Jaiger had taken care to shield her from the eyes of others as he informed her of Larsa's request. And yet here she sat with her hair mussed and eyes feeling crusty. It was ridiculous to think of holding a meeting in ones bed robe.  
Even as Amalia she had risen to a certain standard. After such a tiring, vexing day this was absurd!  
She would_ speak_ to Jaiger about these things, he could be well assured!

Jaiger saw his Queen's eyes flit his way. He saw her lips press into a tight line. He felt her anger. And yet he was reconciled. It was as he'd expected. But what else could he have done? Refuse the Emperor access, embarrass and offend the young leader, create a divide where there need not be one, stir conflict only just calmed? He would accept her displeasure and whatever blame she put upon him.

…She looked parched…  
He stepped to fill two goblets with soothing liquid, setting them before the Emperor and Queen, and then stepped back into the shadows.

Ashe stifled a yawn, hiding it behind a finely kept hand, and, without thought of its appearing, lifted the cup for a comforting sip. "What is it, Larsa? When I said we'd speak on the morrow, I intended that we wait for the rising of the sun."

"Yes, Ashelia, forgive me. It has become apparent that I cannot wait. We must settle this discord before our peoples suffer from our inability to see to their needs as we see to our own. Our enemies are searching for weaknesses, hoping to tear apart what we have worked to build. And here you and I, who should be fully unified in this cause, find a deep divide. I intend to make this right."

"Make what right, dear Emperor? Will you set free Dalmascan sons and daughters yet kept within your prison walls? Will you rebuild what you have torn down? Will you raise the dead?" Ashe's voice was dry and brusque. She was in no mood for this conversation. Her very soul was weary of it, and they had not yet begun.

Larsa let her comments pass by. His mind was set.  
"My lady, you and I know, and know it well…leaders make decisions, and those who are bound to serve obey the command. Though at the time I was unaware of the blood upon my family's hands, I was not innocent. Sorrow came upon you by the will of my lord brother. The same was sanctioned, whether in word or through silence, by our father. I am heir to House Solidor. Not only the honor but also the debts of my name pass to me. You hold here a prisoner whose name is offense to you. I do not come to offer myself in his place. He indeed stands in mine. You hold note on a debt that is mine to pay."

* * *

Basch closed the journal and hid it again away. He sat quietly, letting the warmth of the Dalmascan night take the edge from the chill of his heart. Small lights flickered all about him as fireflies swirled with the sand in the air.  
One came near, and Basch held a hand open to let it light upon his gloved hand.

"_Got it! Hurry, Basch, open the lid! The wings tickle!"_

"_Okay, but be careful, Noah. We don't want to lose the others." _

"_There! It's in!"_

"_All right! How many is that?"_

"…_twenty-one, twenty-two… Twenty-three total. Is that enough you think?"_

"_We need one more. Then we'll each have twelve, just like our age."_

"_Hey, good idea, Basch! You want to take a turn catching? I'll hold the jar this time."_

"_Just don't let 'em out, okay?"_

"_Basch!"_

"_Sorry."_

"_Yeah, right. Hurry it up will you?"_

"_Ha! I have one!"_

"_Okay, easy does it… There we go! Twenty-four!" _

"_Woo-hoo!" _

"_Yay!"_

_Two gangly boys with hair bleached near-white and skinned deeply tanned by the summer lay bare-chested in the soft, cool dirt. The same dirt was smeared across their knees and faces, caked beneath fingernails and between toes after hours spent working and playing in the elements, watching the sun as it moved high, sank low, and disappeared in the Landis sky. _

_Side by side, too close to be closer, their faces resting upon arms crossed beneath their chins, they peered into the the jar, watching the flittering, fluttering creatures.  
Around the boys the free fireflies danced in the sky as the light from within the enclosure reflected in the brothers' eyes._

The firefly on Basch's hand flew off.

"_Hey, Basch?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_What do we do with them now?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_You wanna let 'em go, and catch some more?"_

"_Yeah! Good idea!" _

_Together they spun the lid and swung the glass to scatter the gathered flock, watching them merge with the others. And then they began again.  
Two more sets of twenty-four caught and released, and the exhausted boys gave up their chase. _

_They grinned at one another, contented, as they lay back down in the grass and dirt, this time on their backs, arms crossed beneath their heads, watching the display of lights. Mesmerized their eyes began to close. _

"_Boys! Come on in and get cleaned up now." _

_Basch looked over at his brother who yawned and shrugged. First to his feet, Basch offered his brother a hand and pulled him up. "Hey, Noah, remember those flowers we saw earlier?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_You think Mama would like some?"_

_Noah nodded eagerly. _

"_Boys!"_

"_We'll be right in, Mama!" Noah called, winking at Basch secretively. _

_Plucking the stems of a few from the abundance, the boys held them behind their backs as they lightly tread back to the house. _

"_Basch! Noah! Get yourselves back to the house!" Their father's voice, less patient now than their mother's had been, called into the darkness. _

_The brothers exchanged looks. "Uh-oh. We better get going," Noah warned and Basch grabbed one more flower.  
Together they slipped back to the house, meeting their father at the door.  
He had been on the verge of a lecture when Basch had snuck him a peak at the blooms. Irritation had turned to silent laughter, and he bit his lip as he moved to let them pass, watching closely the scene. _

"_What have you two been doing out there at this hour? Your supper's cold." Their mother chided lightly as she moved in from the other room._

"_Here, Mama. For you." _

"_Oh! Thank you!" Their mother's eyes had grown large with surprise, and she had quickly gone to get a vase. "We'll put them right here, up out of the way so they won't get knocked over." She put them upon a high shelf. "They are beautiful, boys. It was very thoughtful." She kissed both their faces and thanked them again. And then she had demanded they wash their hands with soap even before she'd sent them to bathe. All the while their father had stood to the side with eyes brimming as his lips quivered in barely contained laughter._

_Both boys, and to a lesser degree their mother, had suffered from itching and hives for days afterward, while their father had seemed unusually prone to bouts of unexplained chuckles._

_The next time they'd gone to find the plant, in hopes of bringing their mother a fresh supply of blooms, every sign of the flower was gone, and the ground almost seemed charred to their eyes. How disappointed they'd been.  
Later Basch would find that the description of the flower they had picked was one of a rare weed that often caused an array of allergic reactions. Named a nuisance to all, the plant was sought for extermination, citizens being fearful of its seed spreading through their fields. They dug the plants up by the roots and burned all traces._

Basch reached out and cupped a hand around a bright desert bloom. Overripe, it came loose and fell into his hand.

* * *

Wulf watched as the Judge Magister stood and made his way. The guard scowled as he instinctively knew to where. The Dungeon.

Sore and tired as Noah was he did not return to the hard cot to which he'd been secured. He rested his back against the smooth stone of the cell, and slowly lowered himself into the corner.

The two young faces could not escape his thoughts.

Larsa had been born early, they had told him, before his expected time. He had been yet very small, even for his barely two years, when first Gabranth had been introduced to the young one.  
Even now Noah could recall how he stood there so properly in his princely attire beside Judge Magister Drace, his tiny hand lost in hers…  
How properly he had offered the slight fingers for a ceremonial kiss.  
The delicate face, even then so expressive and sincere, had never had the round plumpness of babes. Though now the planes of his face had started to strengthen his features were even then refined and might have been sculpted.  
And though he was small for his age he had seemed older in temperament. He was gentle and good-natured, alert and quick, eager to try and devoid of fear. He was from the start a little man.

Even when now and then he had succumbed to frustration, Larsa would simply let his head fall into his hands and stand bowed as if sorrowing. At the worst he would kneel upon the ground and put his head to the floor, or bow over a sofa to hide his face. But very rarely did his displeasure rise to any vocal display or active manifestation.

That is why perhaps when one night early in his duties as Judge Magister, Gabranth had been so forcefully taken back when he was called to Larsa's chamber by a frantic nursemaid.

…_She was wringing her hands and red-eyed in grief.  
Unable to understand a word through her wailing, and thinking the worst, Gabranth had pulled on slacks and taken up his swords, running barefoot and bare-chested through the halls to Larsa's door. _

_Even from outside the thick walls Noah could hear the child howling as if he was enduring some great pain. Gabranth's thoughts had turned to grim scenes of violence on the other side.  
Knights had thrown open the doors, and he had rushed in with swords ready to slaughter whomever might be doing the child harm.  
But there was no enemy there. Only a pack of nurses and two physicians staring wild eyed at the toddler as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads and a tail._

"_What is going on?" He had managed to speak, though he wondered if he was yet in his bed dreaming._

_The grieving nursemaid by whose word he had come approached him with anguish upon her face.  
"The blankie," she cried, "is gone!" _

_At that moment he'd been certain he was still abed and quite possibly dying of the fever. _

_But, in case that self-diagnosis were not so, he had taken time to discover that the blankie in question had been with Larsa from birth, and never had he slept without it. Unfortunately, the child had been taken on an excursion that early morn and the valuable item, it was determined, had not made the transfer from the airship-which now had left for parts unknown. _

_Noah had taken up the young lord, marched from the chamber, leaving the distraught group behind, and returned to his own rooms.  
Unwilling to give him over to another, Gabranth set the boy, still sobbing, "I wan my Bwankie, pwease," upon the floor of his quarters, and helped himself into the armor he was yet adjusting to. _

_The knights were astonished.  
The pilot and crew of the airship he summoned were in shock.  
And yet they lifted off and soared into the sky. _

_He'd meant to recover the blanket and see the boy safely back to his chamber before any further damage came about. But less than five minutes into the flight young Larsa was asleep in his arms. _

_While the child slept the blanket was recovered, and the ship was landed before he woke.  
But when the doors opened, and he carried Larsa, bright-eyed and as mild and even tempered as ever, through the Palace doors, Drace had met them there.  
She had demanded the child at once, and then had transferred him immediately into the arms of the nursemaid from the previous night. This time the woman who had pleaded with him for help wouldn't even meet Gabranth's eyes. _

_The tongue-lashing he'd received had been ego-bruising at the very least. He did manage to defend himself by reminding Drace that she had been absent the Palace and that he had clearance to remove the young heir should he feel the need. His attempt had not been appreciated, and he had been made to endure a renewal of the scathing rebuke. _

_He had wondered then if his days in the Palace were numbered, and perhaps even the days of his life if she had her way. Some hours later again Drace had sent for him.  
He went prepared for the worst, and was greeted at the doorway this time by his colleague and the smallest Solidor, blankie trailing behind him._

"_You called for me, Judge Magister Drace?" He cautiously asked the question. _

"_No." Her eyes were hard, her lips tense. She scowled. "Lord Larsa requests __Branth__ take him on the big ship. You will accompany us." _

_His eyes must have given him away, because he had managed to keep his lips still. She scowled, but her lips refused to deny a hint of a smile even as her narrowed eyes dared him to make more of it. He did not._

"_Of course, my lord. As you wish." He bowed to his fellow Judge Magister and to the young one. _

_Larsa stretched out his hand to be kissed. Gabranth knelt and obliged him with a gentle caress to the small hand. "I am at your service, Lord Larsa."_

"_Tank-to, Branth." Larsa bowed too low and became overbalanced. Drace and Gabranth each reached to steady him.  
Drace was first. Gabranth withdrew.  
She took the young one's hand and instructed him to walk tall beside her as they moved down the hallway.  
The knights lining the way each bowed to the child who lifted his hand in acknowledgment as he passed.  
Gabranth followed a respectful distance behind. _

_The blankie had eventually worn out, and been lost and not found by his fourth birthday. But Larsa had only then sighed quietly and rested his head thoughtfully into a pillow for awhile. The little man._

The fear for Larsa's safety, the worry that Larsa would be left alone, that his goodness would be shattered by lack of defense, had troubled his guardians long before Vayne had shown his hand.  
For that he was safe and strong, Noah was grateful.  
Despite all else that had been between them in this he would always be thankful to Basch.

Faolyn…in some ways he seemed younger than Larsa. He too had endured so much. Lost so much.

Larsa would thrive without him. He knew his path and purpose. He had found strength of his own. …He had Basch…  
Would Faolyn survive if he were gone? It seemed arrogant to say otherwise. That his life meant anything to the boy's. And yet…

"Noah."

"Basch?"

Without chains he was able to approach the cell door and stand face to face with his brother.

"What is it? Larsa-"

"Is securely resting."

"Then-"

The bloom fell from Basch's loosed grip, and Noah stooped to take it up in his hands. "For me?"  
Fresh from thinking kindly on his brother's role in Larsa's current state Noah's tone was carefully light, but Basch seemed not to recognize.

"Haleine Ranel. What is her part in this?"

"In what?" Noah's face bowed over the petals, shielded from Basch's sharp eyes. His voice remained mild but became a touch aloof.

Basch's eyes narrowed at Noah's noncommittal response. "Would you withhold information, and put Lord Larsa and the peace at risk by your silence?"

Noah's eyes rose to Basch's face. His fist clenched around the flower, crushing the petals. "It was never my intent to desert my post, nor Lord Larsa! I would never… I only- I…" But Noah had no need of Basch's judgment. He condemned himself.

Basch saw the grief written upon his brother's face. He looked away, shifted, and turned back. "As I hear it, the charge is murder not desertion."

Noah flinched, his teeth grinding against the anger and pain that sharpened like twin swords readying to defend with insults-and to open old wounds if his brother desired it so.  
And then he blinked. His brow lifted slightly as he read Basch's eyes.  
…It was a joke?  
Rendered speechless, Noah swallowed the barbs poised at the tip of his tongue. The taste was bitter.  
Basch, he reminded himself, never did have much of a sense of humor.

Basch hesitated and gruffly offered something more. "Larsa knows you did not desert. And I do not lament my role at his side. However, these sensitive matters would be aided by sharing information."

"_You _are asking for _my_ help?" Noah had not intended the thought to turn to words, nor were they heard in his mind in such a sharply scoffing tone. He saw Basch's eyes harden and his jaw raise.

"I am _asking_ for your _cooperation_. For the sake of Lord Larsa."

Noah's answer was softly spoken. "For the sake of Lord Larsa you have it."

Wulf watched from the shadows as the Judge Magister and prisoner spoke in hushed tones minute after minute. Careful not to disturb their concentration with his presence, the soldier cautiously controlled even his own breathing.  
But too soon the purposeful steps of another echoed down the passage, breaking the stillness and putting all his efforts to naught.  
Wulf shoved the soldier back as they met and put a silencing hand across his lips. The damage was already done.

The Judge Magister's head swiftly turned toward the sound, and then, after a quick exchange of words, the armored warrior turned and vacated the dungeon.

Wulf glared ominously into the face of the knight as his hand tightened around his throat.  
The soldier stared back evenly, trying to mask his fight for breath.  
Without a word Wulf suddenly released him, and the knight moved from the wall, cautiously watching the abrasive guard. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"Yeah. Shut up, Drystan." Wulf pushed past the soldier, and took the stairs three at a time.

Drystan gave a half-smile and rubbed his neck as the officer vanished. "Thanks for the bruises." He quipped sardonically, and then imitated Wulf's voice. _"You'd enjoy a few more?"_  
Drystan's reverted to his own tone, lifting his hands in appeasement. "No, no, that's okay. But thanks anyway." Drystan grinned wryly, shook his head in exasperation, and continued on his rounds.

* * *

"It is of utmost importance that Judge Magister Zargabaath receives this message as quickly as possible."

"Yes, Your Honor." The Archadian knight had eagerly accepted the assignment. He bowed and made his way swiftly down the long hallway, taking a left and vanishing from view.

"Your Honor…" The second knight looked into his commander's eyes and swallowed.

"Yes?" Basch was impatient. There was much on his mind.

"Do you have other orders for me?"

This knight too seemed eager to be away from this place… "Stay as you are until another comes to take your place." Perhaps the Dalmascan heat did not agree with them.

"Yes, sir." How deflated and unhappy he seemed. Basch barely concealed his irritation. Dalmasca was not that terrible a climate to endure. The Archadians would just have to adjust-as he had done.

Perhaps, he considered, the soldiers wanted to explore Rabanastre. The environment was not conducive to mingling at the moment. There would, hopefully, be more suitable time for that later. Better now that they focused on duty.

Basch stepped inside the door, unaware of the grimace upon the face of the knight left alone to face the discovery the Judge Magister would make. In an instant he had returned, swords in hand, and the knight stood bravely to accept his commander's wrath.

"Where is he?"

"Your Honor, the Emperor gave orders-"

"Where-is-Lord Larsa? Answer!"

Basch backed the soldier up to the wall with his menacing advance, and the knight trembled with transparent fear.

"Judge Magister! There is no need for concern! I am well!" Larsa's voice rang out down the passage, and Basch turned to see Larsa being escorted by Captain Jaiger Quinn.

"Larsa…" Basch said no more. He was too relieved.

The same could be said for the Archadian knight who shuddered violently as his superior turned his attention elsewhere.

Jaiger saw the soldier's reaction, and turned his gaze upon the Judge Magister, giving him close study.  
The Elite Archadian seemed unaware. He was too fixated upon the young ruler's welfare.

Larsa reached for Basch's hand. "It is all right, my friend. I did not mean to worry you. I wakened and thought not to delay any further in my talks with the good Queen. But I thank you…for your concern." He smiled softly, tiredly, and entered the chamber, his guardian in tow.

Jaiger watched thoughtfully as the door closed. His eyes turned to the soldier who had let his head fall back upon the wall, exceeding thankful for his reprieve. He felt the Dalmascan Captain's eyes upon him and straightened, his face lifting in wounded pride. Jaiger gave a slight smile and nod, quickly followed by a deep sigh, and slowly walked away.

* * *

"Rest, Basch. There is little night left, and I feel a long day coming." Larsa was quiet, and Basch observed him with worry.

"The Queen, she made unfair demands?" He would speak to Ashelia. This must end. Larsa must not suffer…

Larsa seemed for a moment without words. "Not unfair." He spoke softly and then was silent for a time. "She has agreed to allow our people to pass freely across the border if we will agree to move with high priority on the matter of Dalmascan prisoners. As I know it is already being done, this is not so difficult a condition to meet."

"Yes. It is being seen to." Basch agreed. He would do more. Put more aids to work researching, perhaps add a Judge to the teams investigating. He would do whatever he must to ensure justice with no further lapses of security as that with Meret Denali.  
He watched Larsa carefully. Larsa would not meet his eyes. "Is this all?"

Larsa finally looked up into his face. Weariness was written upon his face. And yet he smiled reassuringly even as he offered an ambiguous reply. "It is enough for tonight."

"This thing with Dimas, Larsa, it is not over. I fear there is danger both here and in Archadia. I have sent a message to warn Judge Magister Zargabaath, but it would be best if I were there to aid him. It might also be wise if you were present to strengthen the morale of the people. If you have reached a solution with the Lady Ashe, we should consider returning come day."

"Yes, Basch. I will be ready."

Basch removed the armor, washed his face, and finally took to the sheets. Still he lay awake long after Larsa had fallen into slumber.

He feared in part the nightmares would return and interrupt Larsa's rest. The boy had not said as much, but how was it he had woken after Basch had left? More likely he had been wakened earlier by his guardian's struggling.  
To his chagrin, Basch was also somewhat concerned over the vase that lay in shards upon the nightstand. He had gathered every piece he could find, and laid them there for the maids to discover. Here in the wing that housed the royals and their guests any piece might be worth a great price…

He remembered when he'd first risen to a post at the call of the royal family. He had felt so clumsy and awkward in relation to the polished manners of the court. His father had worried over that very thing, and had one season set about trying to impress the rules of polite society upon the young minds of his sons…

"_You must be able to persuade the people that you are refined and dignified-not ruffians," he had told them, firmly, when they balked at lessons upon the keys and strings. _

"_You must become familiar with these things so that you will not be caught off guard and disgraced. Try again." This came when they forgot again the correct etiquette at the table, and chose the dinner fork instead of the salad fork or the napkin was dropped into the soup. _

"_Come now, do as your mother and I do," he had admonished when they had resisted being made to dance together and take turns playing the female partner. _

_He had not relented when the experiment in gentlemanly behavior had resulted in a fistfight leaving one with a black eye and the other with a busted lip.  
He had not changed course when they had from embarrassment and distress blushed fiercely or looked mournfully to their sympathetic mother for mercy.  
Nor was he swayed when they had been so traumatized from the events, so certain they were being punished, that they had come to confess to whatever crime they could and to plead for other methods of repaying their debts to earn their release._

_Sneaking out one morning, in a futile attempt to avoid his zealous instruction, they had caught their parents engrossed in discussing the dread training. _

"_They must learn to be gentlemen! It may be important someday." His brow was wrinkled in worry and he chewed his lip in thought. _

"_But maybe…just maybe…do you think you are going a bit too far?" She offered reason with a light laugh, but he reacted with offense. _

"_My love, it's not as if I enjoy it any more than they! You know I detest this sort of thing…It's unsettling to my nerves." He scratched his beard, ran his hands through his hair, and sighed._

"_Well then? To what do I owe my blistered feet and battered eardrums?" She smirked affectionately, and kissed his cheek. He drew her to him, a shadow upon his face._

"… _I know very well the limitations put upon one in this world. What I have to give them is little enough. If they wish to rise further they will need to make their own way… I'd not have my sons' potential decreased because I did not suffer to instruct them in these things."_

_Understanding and compassion had gentled her laughing eyes, and she had held him close.  
"I would be very proud if they grew up to be like you. And remember, you managed to win the hand of an Archadian gentry's daughter."_

"_True. And glad I am." He kissed her, and then traced her cheek as he continued quietly, "But I did not win the blessing of your father."_

"_He was only too proud to admit he liked you. I am certain he'd have come around if fate had give time. If for nothing else, he always did want grandchildren." _

"_Even ruffians?" He was teasing now. _

"_Especially so." She replied slyly, and then turned her head to see the two boys drinking in every word. Her eyes had ordered them away. They had heard no more, and Basch was certain their father was never told they were there. _

_The lessons had continued, less strictly and more sporadically, until his premature death…  
They had almost learned to dance and manage a lumbering duet upon the keys. Soup spoons and salad forks had remained a mystery. But after he was gone, even if their mother had found the heart to continue the lessons, there had been too many other tasks to consider and too little time for genteel things. _

…Hopefully the vase wasn't an heirloom, but no matter the price the fate of Archadia and Dalmasca was of higher worth and pressing concern.

The words in the journal, Noah's disclosure on Meret Denali and Haleine Ranel, Larsa's demeanor…each and all troubled him. As when Landis fell, Basch had no desire to stand idly by and watch as all he'd worked for crumbled at his feet.

Sleep was still a requirement if he was to do his job to his fullest. He closed his eyes and did not resist. As the last wave prepared to fall, uninvited the thought appeared, _"What would your father now think of your place in the world, Judge Magister Gabranth?"_ The wave took him, and the thought was lost at sea.

* * *

Ashe lay back in her bed, her heart racing too quickly to sleep.

The balm of peace had evaporated in a moment when she had looked upon the symbol of her suffering. The self-control and purpose that had allowed her to turn from vengeance in the days of struggle had abandoned her in one vulnerable moment. There had seemed nothing greater than her lust for _his_ death…than her need that _he_ be made to anguish as she had once. And yet now she knew…there was something greater… Perhaps she had always known…

Larsa's resolute intent had opened her eyes and offered her a path to the very thing she desired…

She saw even now how his young face had paled and his chin rose at her reply to his offering.  
"I will yield to you on this matter, Emperor Larsa, and never return to it, if you will in exchange yield in one matter to me."  
He had known her price. Though he had held his tongue, she was certain of it…Larsa could not deny her.


	30. Darkness He Called Night

The ground caved and Kasan fell, taking the brunt of his weight upon his knees at the fall's end. Without pause he scrambled forward, and chanced purchase in the loose ground. He could feel the sand and dirt give way as he pulled himself up and over the ledge to continue onward.

Tired… Sore… Follow the stars… How much farther? …How far behind were they now?

* * *

"…trackers have not yet returned." Her voice was calm as she addressed the seething General.

They had not thought to see Dimas Apolinar this night, or perhaps the thought was hope.  
It had been believed either he would be given place within the Dalmascan Castle or would return to the home he had made his temporary headquarters here.  
Having unexpectedly been turned out of the Queen's presence, Dimas was not thinking of sleep and he was in no mood for failure.  
In this night of bad news made worse, it was unfortunate the General's mission had not gone well at the Castle. Unfortunate for them all.

"So, young master Vadhir… You allow the bait to escape." Dimas' held the soldier's throat tightly in his large hand, as the young man battled with his fear. "Knowing the price."

Dimas' gaze smoldered with anticipation as the others watched with careful, cautious eyes. None who might by nature wish could now afford to sympathize and bring Dimas' attention to them.

"Your father makes his livelihood by way of a vineyard, I hear. Five generations in the family… What a proud heritage."

Those who had left others waiting in their quest for honor and glory could not but give morbid attention to this scene that could next be their own.

Signaling to certain of the surrounding few he added, "Burn it. Burn it all." His words, like the cold wind that snuffs the candle, brought a chill.

The young soldier, stripped to the waist, hands lashed to a post, shuddered visibly now and could not withhold a gasped cry of, "No…" His eyes found Dwen, a shimmering glow in the darkness. "Please…no."  
He had not betrayed her time spent with the prisoner… His compliance with her demands would only have added to his crimes, and brought more pain upon his family.  
And yet would she not speak for him? Would she not give him some aid?

Dimas brought his lips close to the soldier's ear. "You should feel fortunate that you had something left to lose. But next time…the land will not be all that burns." He dropped the soldier's face, and turned coolly away. "Dwen, give the boy a taste of his fate."

Nothing moved. Even those who were ordered away could not break their feet from the earth or their eyes from the scene. Dimas was fully aware of the impact upon his men. That they waited with baited breath only added to his satisfaction.

Dwen's face revealed no emotion as the night grew to an ominous red-orange glow around her…  
She met the soldier's eyes without pity, her own eyes red coals as her glowing hand fell upon his bare back.

"Hhaaaahhh!" The soldier's scream of unquenchable torment filled the air, and then there was only silence as his consciousness gave way.

* * *

As his colleague and commander together retraced their steps to the Ranel home, disappearing through the doors and sometime later reappearing, Dax waited.  
As they traversed the path to the light Imperial airship waiting to transport the Judge Magister and his knights, Dax Gracian remained.

In keeping with Judge Magister Zargabaath's order, the knight, stationed beside the lamppost across the street from Ila Wittekind's eatery, observed the lights come on in the small apartment above.  
He watched, and then discreetly turned away his eyes from the silhouette, as she readied for bed. His focus returned in time to see the lights extinguished.

White curtains fluttered. He glimpsed a shade of blue and a woman's form, and could not look away.  
She saw him there staring back at her, and for a moment simply stood looking down. Her expression he could not at this distance see. The curtains closed.

The Imperial Palace was become a candle, a magnificent flame reaching for the stars. And yet here the street was found in a lonely hour, the mercantile district locking its doors, the residential areas slipping to dreams.

Something in his heart panged as he imagined parents tucking their children into bed, and then stealing a few intimate moments alone.  
Briefly he wondered, had Lonnan, his hours of duty fulfilled, made it home to mind this custom?

A patrolling knight meandered down the street. Dax waited patiently as the soldier acknowledged his higher rank and continued on.

Calmly he approached the restaurant doors. He tested their hold, and, being satisfied, circled the building to see that all else was secured.

The night had deepened and the lamp light was garish across the path when Dax at last felt at ease that the lady would rest safely.

Still he thought to stop a guard and ask that special attention be paid to that particular dwelling before he vacated his position to make his return.

A shadow moved across the window, and a slender hand pulled back the curtain. From her vantage Ila Wittekind looked after the knight until he was beyond her sight. Her dark eyes moved to the lamppost beside which he had stood.

She went to her vanity and took the pistol from its case. Carefully she prepared the instrument.  
In the mirror her reflection seemed strange…the hard glint of steel, the sheer wrap of lace…

The ominous tool she placed beneath the pillow where she laid her head to rest. And her dreams, when they came at last, were full of innocence and horror, as surreal as the vision of the woman who slept there.

* * *

"That will be all, Pryderi, thank you."

"Yes, Judge Magister. Good evening, Your Honor."

The doors to Zargabaath's study closed behind the knight as Lonnan Pryderi's steps took him through the vestibule and to the outer exit of the Judge Magister's grand office suite.

Along the hallway palace guards gave recognition. An escort, yes, and an aide in the Judicer's many duties.  
But more, for to be chosen to stand with a Judge Magister was no small thing.

These were decorated soldiers, advanced in their skills, made worthy for the task by their deeds of service and proof of loyalty. At any time necessary those selected could be called to act as the Judge Magister's arm. Indeed, when the Captain of the Alexander commanded his men to battle it was not unlikely that one of these would represent the senior officer on the ground, carrying out his orders as a lieutenant. At all times were they ready to adapt their ability to suit their master's needs. Seldom was time their own.

And yet now, with the end of the war… Now that perhaps things made chaotic from the transition to peace and lord Larsa's rule were settling… Perhaps the home front need not pay so great a price.

Made by the commander's release restless for his freedom, Lonnan Pryderi manipulated the lifts and mazes of corridors at a near run, slowing to a brisk clip, for reasons of preserving the dignity of his position, only if he chanced to come upon any other along his way.

That which awaited him in the city below would be swallowed up and lost within the opulent Palace. But for all the riches he had beheld in these surrounds he longed for something of more value.

Sworn to a life of discipline and reserve, eagerness took hold as he piloted the small craft away from the Palace and toward too seldom heeded lights of home.

* * *

The young soldier calmly rose from his bed, and walked the hall of the medical wing to make his way to the bedside of Haleine Ranel. He tilted his head and looked at her thoughtfully, sorrowfully.  
His voice was gentle and refined when he spoke.

"Lady Ranel, patiently I wait but hear no news from my beloved father, your dear friend."

He placed a hand upon hers.

"I fear I have made you to suffer. But you cannot hold me to fault. The fault is your own."

His intense eyes grew increasing sad, and he sighed as he took the chair beside her. "My esteemed father's quality was maligned and his person detained like a common criminal. Made to suffer indignities unworthy of his state… Abandoned by his allies… I was too young and too weak to then reach him. …He was, of course, _betrayed._ By _whom_, do you think?"

He reached up to stroke her hair and her brow flinched.

"Though it broke his heart he feared 'twas you, and yet graciously wished not to falsely accuse. Loyal and valuable he had numbered you, and so, swayed by partiality, gave opportunity to prove."

The young man studied the still face of the woman before him as if she were some great, unsolved mystery to him.

"Though my father's great affection for you stays my hand 'til the thing is established, I believe I see the evidence here before me. Consider, Madame. The object of our hatred escapes, two of our own destroyed by his hand, and you are shielded here in this palatial embrace…"

Suddenly the young man's eyes grew bright with fear. "I yet wait out of deference to my father, but if aught has befallen him…" His face crumbled with sudden emotion, and his body trembled.  
And then the eyes grew cold even as he spoke gently and low. "I will be close at hand to help you to make amends."

* * *

Zargabaath paced, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin as he pondered. Treading a pattern into the luxurious hand-woven rug, he circled his richly stained, high-polish desk. Lost in thought he crossed the room and strode through the passage to his right to enter a separate space.

Vacantly he stared upon the somber shelves that stretched floor to ceiling, lined with row after row of texts detailing the workings of the Law he served and the history of the great Empire.

Imposing, fixed, steadfast was the Law, caring neither for foe or friend…

As he considered he reached to stroke the binding of a volume near at hand. His deliberate mind knew what lie within as surely as if he were now reading the intricate words.

Time and again the Law had bowed him under its weight as it sentenced him to surrender his will. And then this same would turn and by its unbending nature give assurance. The strong pillar to rely inequitably upon though all else might sway.

While he might chance grace or wrath the Law felt neither love nor hate.

Silently he retraced his steps and reengaged his route.

Though little had he found to add to Gabranth's account, seeing with his own eyes the evidence within the Ranel home brought further clarity to the tale. At once he had noted the odd mix of formality and intimacy in the arrangement left behind amid the wreckage. Areas reserved for proper entertaining had been put to use, saying Haleine had kept company with another not the son. From this alone one conclusion might be drawn. And yet the entirety spoke less of pleasure than of business.

Zargabaath broke from the course to study the large painting that covered the wall behind the desk. Commissioned from a premier Archadian artist, the scene was that of winged creatures rising in flight from shaded, peaceful shores, making their way above waters of lavender and green and blue to touch the silver clouds and be lost in the horizon. Below them fishing boats were mere specks, houses only dots on the earth, and the people faceless strangers.

Hands clasped behind his back, the Judge Magister stood straight and drew a deep breath. Perhaps unwinged creatures were not meant to leave the earth, as some fervently proclaimed. And yet even from the bridge of the Alexander there was offered clarity of perspective in staring across the transparent currents, removed from that which would cloud the mind.

Memory took him to the peaceful site coming upon Mt. Bur-Omisace, and beyond to the spires of smoke rising as the Alexander took its leave, Gabranth and the young lord within.

He turned with a weary sigh to avert the transforming of the peaceful flock into armed airships, to prevent the beautiful landscape from being torn and broken, and to silence the decree that the faceless be erased and strangers for all time remain.

Zargabaath lifted his eyes to the banners that framed his principal doorway…the crest of House Solidor…the emblem of the Ministry of Law… Calmly he returned to his earlier deliberations.

As it was apparent Madam Ranel had entertained a guest, it was just as apparent that she, by will or otherwise, had somehow come into the midst of a conspired attempt on a life.

Gabranth…...

Seven years he had been Judge Magister Zargabaath when lord Gramis called for him on the subject of the warrior Gabranth.

Seven years in which the Senate found means to rise and strike with poisoned tongues, planting deep the mortal barb.

Seven years that had brought the death of Gramis' eldest two sons…a most dread event…

Seven years that had seen the empress consort fade and fail with such swiftness it took the breath of the court.

Some said it was the death of the eldest sons that hastened the death of the mother.  
Some said it was then that Gramis' own strength began to wane.  
Almost a decade her senior, the Emperor was left with the child she did not survive to see grow, hollow rooms haunted by those whose lives were forfeited, and the visage of the creature whose wrath he stirred…

…But only the foolish said aloud these things. The wise considered the high probability they'd not live to so say again.

Perchance reason for the addition of Gabranth could be found simply and solely in the growing account of vital missions whose outcome had been made successful by the knight's sharp instincts and strong arm.

Conceivably one could offer up the possibility of Gramis' desire for fresh eyes and ears to better recognize the subtle tells of betrayal and deceit.

Of surety these were legitimate ingredients in the Emperor's assessment of merit, without which all else would have been made mute.

And yet over the years Zargabaath had found himself wondering in silence…

Was there a dark enthrallment with the fraternal divide that had aided his Excellency's judgment?  
Did lord Gramis believe a man such as Gabranth would best understand the need to protect the youngest heir from another of the child's own blood?

That Gramis would call Zargabaath for discovery in the question of worth had brought less surprise than cause for consideration. He had accepted the assignment and with it the burden of liability for his father's benevolent gesture to a dishonored friend. It was his sworn duty to both house and throne…

Never had the question been one of ability. The question was one of loyalty.

Zargabaath had delivered all to Gramis that was asked, been objective and clear in his findings, and then kept his own reservations. He had maintained a watchful eye throughout the years, even as his shrewd and discerning lord was appeased and Drace, the compass of whose opinion he had considered next to his own, was wooed.

And yet loyalty which could not be established in words had been proved at last with the survival of the child heir.

Young Larsa was made Emperor. Despite war… Despite the Senate and lord Vayne…

Despite Dalmasca...and the famed Captain there.

Into the room on the left Zargabaath strode with long, ordered strides that took him to a carved circular table in the core.

Before him spread Ivalice with Archadia and Rozarria brought to prominence, restrained from a deadly embrace only by the eye of Bhujerba and the boldness of Dalmasca.

He touched the crystallized sectors marking the capitals of each nation. The map came to life as lines of latitude and longitude glowed, and strategic priorities were bared.

Eyes narrowing beneath steel brows, he touched the imagery of a Rozarrian warship and with a tap of his finger it evolved to a small fleet.  
At this locale it was reported Rozarrian airships were yet routinely doing maneuvers in preparedness for the possibility of Archadian aggression…or weakness.

The Imperial Archadian Air Force actively patrolled the areas between its own borders and the reinstated Kingdom of Dalmasca. And yet the treaty that gave peace brought with it some degree of blindness, for now the Empire must respect sovereign airspace and with it the restrictions put upon their pilots.

This new question with Dalmasca need be settled soon, for it did not stand alone in priority. War with the Rozarrian Empire may have been averted, but the conflict could not be forgotten.  
Vigilance must be maintained. Focus must not be lost. All manner of evil can come in a day.

He touched a particular sector, now lonely terrain used only for army training exercises…  
…The campaign to claim the territory had been early in his career, before he'd risen to the position of Judge Magister…The Republic of Landis.

Zargabaath returned to his desk and bowed his head, resting his tired eyes for a moment as he rubbed them and pinched the bridge of his nose.

His thoughts turned to Haleine, lying in her injured state. What was to become of her?  
How would the Law judge her when all was said and done?

Straightening in his luxurious chair, Zargabaath took out the title he'd removed Inar's study, and opened it to examine the words, near twenty years aged, written in familiar hand upon the inner cover.  
_"Heed me, Inar. With this we have come to an end. I'll not have my son be made to regret our once friendship.  
-Accius."_

Perhaps he would send a messenger to return the book to his father. There was no return for the friend.

A knock reverberated through the rooms of his office suite, and Zargabaath frowned. The hour was late.

"Come." His hand readied a weapon to defend, cautious though he felt no alarm or dread.

"A message from Judge Magister Gabranth."

"Talk of the devil and he doth appear." The Judge Magister's words were dry, and he crossed his arms against his armored chest as he waited the word.

The knight was taken aback. "The devil, sir? I am but a swordsman!"

Zargabaath courteously gave no reply, instead extending his hand to take the crisp note.  
His light gray eyes narrowed under a lowered brow as he read the brief words.

_This is to request better accommodations for my guest, should she remain in my absence.  
Be on guard for scavengers who mean to take what is ours to keep. They must not succeed.  
–Gabranth, Judge Magister_

For a moment Zargabaath simply stood, the gray eyes that viewed the message withholding any clue to his thoughts. And then at his word the soldier fell in behind. Likewise others along the way harkened to his command to go this way or that. And the steward of law and justice calmly attended to the task at hand.

* * *

The door squeaked just slightly as Lonnan entered, and he made a mental note to oil the hinge at first opportunity.  
Quietly, he made his way through the shadows.

Suddenly Lonnan stopped and peered down the hallway. A smile tilted his lips as he saw the small form framed there.

"Go back to bed, Healy." Lonnan whispered softy, and then removed his helm and swung the child up into his strong arms. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"I'm thirsty, Daddy." The little boy took his father's helm, studying it, moving the visor, and finally putting it on his own head. Too large for the small one, it became overbalanced and fell. Lonnan caught seamlessly and the child took it again.

"Thirsty, are you? Well, we can fix that."

Lonnan carried him into the kitched, planted him on the counter top, and filled a small cup and then a larger one with milk. The child watched closely as his father drank, taking sips at the same time, wiping his mouth on pace, and drawing a long sigh when did his father. But when Lonnan's mouth opened wide for a yawn the boy only grinned.

"You tired, Dad?"

"Yep, I am tired, buddy. …You almost done there?" Lonnan patiently waited, but couldn't calm a second yawn that stretched his jaw. A dull ache brought a reminder of an old break that had not quite healed properly.

"Yep." Healy mimicked his father's word, and then lifted his small cup. "Cheers!"

Lonnan laughed quietly, and lifted his own cup, pulling back only to warn, "Careful now, let's not spill," and then their raised cups touched. Lonnan tilted his cup back and drained every last bit. His son followed suit.  
When Lonnan plopped his cup down on the countertop, so did Healy.

Lonnan smiled affectionately. "All done?" Healy nodded briskly, and though the four year old boy was capable of finding his bed on his own power Lonnan took him up again.

Just as they passed through the door of the room Healy and his younger sister Vie shared the boy tapped his father's armored chest. "Um, Dad?"

Lonnan looked down to find the little boy's face twisted in acute discomfort. "Yes?"

"I need to go bathroom."

Minutes later the child, out of excuses, looked up at his father as Lonnan tucked him into bed.

"Daddy?"

"What now, Healy?" Lonnan's smile held a hint of exasperation. Weariness was taking hold, and the hours of his freedom were short.

"I love you."

Lonnan was silent as he tucked the child in with his favorite toy. He was silent still as he checked on little Vie, placing a careful hand on the chest of the small bundle of blankets and curls dreaming in the bed across the room from her brother. Assured of the normal rise and fall of her breathing, Lonnan touched her curls with his lips, lightly so as not to wake her, and returned to his son.

Sitting with his back to the wall, propped only half onto the narrow bed by the hold of his booted foot upon the floor, Lonnan put an arm around his drowsy child. "I love you too, Healy." His voice was thick and low.

"And sister?" The little boy yawned, and Lonnan smiled.

"Yes, very much."

"And momma?"

"Yes. And momma."

"And baby brother?"

"Mmm…Yes, I do love the baby… But brother? What if it's a sister?" Lonnan lightly poked his son's belly in teasing.

"Can't be."

Lonnan bit his lip and scratched his head, curious as to the child's reasoning. "Why not?"

Healy spread his arms out, his face viewing his father as if he'd overlooked the obvious. "Brother, sister, brother, sister, brother, sister, brother, sister…" He shrugged and shook his head dramatically as if to say, _"Surely you see!"_

"Whoa there! Let's just stick to brother, sister, brother _or_ sister, shall we?" Under his breath he added, "Or I'll have to petition for a sizable raise."

He moved to go, but Healy put his arms about him. "I want you to stay."

"I need to go see your Momma."

Healy's eyes filled with tears, and Lonnan delayed. "What's wrong now, buddy?"

The child's face crumbled. "I always miss you, Daddy."

Lonnan stayed. The child who snuggled under his arm could not see the melancholy that had slipped into his eyes.

Some time later, when Healy's light snoring signaled he'd fallen to sleep, Lonnan gently maneuvered his way out of the bed and made his way down the hall toward the room he and his wife too seldom shared.

He shed his armor and turned into the washroom to prepare for bed.

Sleep was as difficult for her to come by these days as for him. He'd not wake her. But he would be near her.

A quick shower later, Lonnan emerged toweling his dark hair and stood by their bed looking down at her shape, becoming swollen with evidence of their child. The sight brought a tender smile.

Carefully he slipped between the sheets and couldn't help but reach for her. She responded to his touch and moved into him so that she slept nestled in his arms.

Just as his eyes closed he felt a slight stirring under his hand, and his fingers instinctively caressed her stomach.  
_…And baby too._

The combination of movement caused Aneera to awaken. She blinked sleep from her eyes. "I _must_ be dreaming… There's a handsome stranger in my bed."

Lonnan grimaced at the mix of praise and rebuke. At least his absence had only lasted a week this time, and not been weeks or months as in the height of the conflict when by assignment or alert he was so oft kept away. He wanted to say something to make it right, but there was nothing he could find to offer. "Did I wake you?"

His wife smiled sleepily. "Tickles." She pleasantly sighed and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry." He brushed her ear with his lips. His meaning was for other things.

Aneera stroked the planes of his face, letting her fingers trail to his lips as she viewed him with gentle but serious eyes. She moved to dip her head toward his, and her hair fell like a curtain around his face. The scent of her filled him.

* * *

"I am the Chief Physician!"

"You misunderstand if you take my words as request. It will be done." The physician's protests were disregarded by the Judge Magister, whose attention fell upon the ashen form of Haleine Ranel.

Healers and warriors cooperated and contended in their task.

"Let it be known, I cannot in good conscious-"

Zargabaath made no sign of noting the physicians offended sputtering.

"Forgive me, sir, what is taking place here?" The wounded soldier appeared in the doorway of Madame Ranel's room.

"The lady is being taken elsewhere for care." One of the medical staff freely offered.

"Might I be of I help?" The young man's eyes brightened as eagerly he offered his assistance.

"Rest son. This does not concern you." The Judge Magister's crisp, firm tone impressed upon all that no further information be shared or requested. His eyes moved constantly as he inspected their surroundings.

The young soldier had no choice but to relent. It went against wisdom to argue with an officer of the Ministry of Law.

Under a wall of guard the wounded lady was taken from view. The Judge Magister's formidable presence went with her, leaving the physician and patient distressed, each in their own way.

* * *

_They were coming...  
She was afraid…She was afraid for him.  
The wind was cold. The rain was hot. …The rain of her tears.  
He could feel her heart beating more fiercely than ever before.  
Quiet, my son… Hush now, my little one…  
Her voice in his ears, full of courage and terror.  
Running…running…  
They were coming. _

_They were here.  
So loud. So very angry…  
The rumbling roar of beasts filled his ears.  
She held him tighter as they circled.  
It's okay…it's okay, my love…  
Her arms, like iron, locked him to her breast.  
Voices, cruel and cold, mocked her…  
Distorted forms moved from the shadows.  
He felt the shudder of her heart, the gasp of her breath…  
…They were here._

_Falling…Falling…  
Mother…  
It's okay, son…  
Mother!  
Her arms…loosed.  
Cold…so cold.  
He could not feel her heartbeat…  
Mother!  
You'll be okay, my little one…  
Her voice so soft…So far away…  
He could not feel her breath upon his cheek…  
Lost without her…So alone…  
Mother…mother! _

"_Mother? Mother, please don't go! Mother!"_

A sharp pain to his cheek brought a gasp.

_Forms, fierce and pitiless, blurred before him. _

_"Mother? Don't leave me… Please, don't leave me! Mother!"_

A second pain, more shocking in force, rocked him._ Falling..._

A firm hand grasped his arm and caught him, pulling him so violently that a terrible, stabbing pulse shot through his shoulder. His breath caught, and his eyes cleared though his mind remained groggy.  
There he stood…in the entry hall of Dimas' borrowed home…in his nightshirt.

Wayrah shivered in the warm night air. His body was covered in sweat. The airy cloth he wore clung to his back. His hair was fixed to his forehead and neck. Droplets fell from his nose and chin, whether they be perspiration or tears.

Gisela stood upon the lower steps of the winding stairwell, hands gripping the railing as if she must or else she'd fall. Dazed, he met her eyes; she looked away. What of her face was not bruised was deathly paled.

The hand that held him so securely belonged to the General's lieutenant. The heightened tension in his face as he studied Wayrah's made the meaning clear even before his gruff words. "Don't _ever_ do that again! Do you hear me, child?"

Like a prisoner resisting his captivity Wayrah's heart pounded against his chest and sounded so loudly in his ears that he was distracted from the soldier's words.

The warrior, so often present since the day he'd been brought from the Overseers to Dimas' forbidding estate, shook the boy harshly. There was something of alarm in his dark eyes.

The grip about Wayrah's shoulders throbbed.

"You are _never_ to leave your bed after hours, do you understand me?"  
For Wayrah this time came much sooner than for others his age, often well before night had fallen…often before he'd taken evening meal. He was never to interfere in the goings on of his elders.

Wayrah felt suddenly nauseated and weak. His legs began to buckle.

Lieutenant Raeder's grip tightened, and held the boy's limp body in place. "You listen to me, boy! Listen to me!"

Wayrah grimaced, and Raeder's eyes searched his carefully. "Must I punish you to teach you?"

Wayrah shuddered and recoiled within the rigid grasp. Wordlessly and emphatically he shook his head.

"Say it. I want to you hear you say it. Right now. Or I'll have no choice but to _make_ you understand!"

The low voice held not the cruelty of Dimas Apolinar, and the serious eyes showed no sign of pleasure at the prospect of the boy's pain. And yet Wayrah knew if Raeder purposed to wound him there would be no shelter under which to hide.

"I understand." Shivering with cold and fear Wayrah stared into the fixed eyes of the officer.

"What do you understand?" The grip did not loosen, and the eyes examined his.

"I'm to be silent and stay abed until summoned." Wayrah whimpered lightly, unable to contain his dread.

The warrior nodded and looked aside for a moment before returning back with renewed intensity.  
"Yes, that. But more." He frowned, and his voice dropped even lower. "You were having nightmares, Master Wayrah, and left your bed in sleep." He seemed wearied. "You _must_ suppress these dreams, and not let them lead you. If the General had been here to discover your error you'd already have paid. There'd be no mercy. Do you understand?"

Wayrah nodded rapidly, fighting for control of his fear. At the warrior's stern gaze the boy hastened to add, "Yes. Yes, sir, I understand."

Raeder nodded watchfully and slowly released the boy's aching arms.

Wayrah hurt, but made no move to sooth his injuries.

"Go to bed." The soldier stood unmoving, giving the boy his release.

Wayrah did not dare meet either set of eyes that watched and followed him into his room.  
He collapsed upon the bed. The spare pillow became his comfort and grew damp with his silent tears.

Footsteps upon the stairs and the quiet shutting of a door signaled Gisela had returned to her chambers.

The door to his own room cracked slightly, and Wayrah felt a pointed gaze upon him. How he wished to shift, to pull his body tighter around itself for protection, but he remembered the lesson and was still.

His hearing caught a light flex in the board beneath a booted foot. He knew the officer was coming nearer, studying his uneven breathing. Long moments passed until Wayrah felt the quilted covers, scattered by his troubled wandering, being placed over his trembling body. Again came Raeder's voice, fraught with warning. "Sleep while you can, master Wayrah, but never think you are safe. For your own sake, and for others, whatever you see in dreams, let it there remain…"


	31. By Dawn's Early Light

While the land was dark and still Kasan met the outskirts of Dalmasca, making his way through the inky night toward the Royal City of the desert kingdom. He was thankful for the sword he'd liberated from the Rozarrian. More than once he was delayed fighting a creature that meant to hinder his way.

His clothing torn and dirty, his hands and feet bloody and covered in grime, his body strained and aching, only by being fully immersed in his mission had he come this far.

Lights flickering inside the parlor of a rundown inn caught his eye. But it was the lone, dilapidated hoverbike chained outside that beckoned him with the seduction of a siren.

Carefully Kasan pulled into the cover of the wall opposite the establishment, surveying the area. Inside he could see shadows moving in ungainly dance. Now and then he could make out discordant and raucous tones. None entered or exited the doors while he watched, and, eyes hardening, jaw tensed, Kasan made his decision.

The party atmosphere masked the sound of the first sword strike, but it took a second and third to accomplish his task.  
Kasan cursed the blade that not so long ago he'd blessed as he hacked again at the link.

The chain fell and Kasan deftly ignored the lack of a key. His days as a soldier had taught him a few things. If being a sword smith didn't pan out, Kasan considered with irony, he would be a skilled thief.

The hover roared to life just as the doors of the inn smashed open.

Kasan threw a leg over the saddle and forced the machine, whining and bellowing, to its limit, ignoring rough screams and zigzagging to avoid the bullets fired behind him. A pulsing spark raced through his veins, the adrenaline of the fight fueled by the question of whether or not he would survive.

His face and neck stung as the wind turned his hair into biting cords. He rode the stolen craft beyond the sound of anger and past the range of attack, and accepted his guilt without remorse. Later he'd consider the implications. For now, he fixed his eyes on the lights of Rabanastre and a mission that must not fail.

* * *

Through the pitch-black there came a tendril of light, fluttering, falling back, coming closer. The winged luminescence caught the breeze, and rose high, floating, stroking the current of air, soaring with the tide. As the hovercraft sped along, the fluttering violet glow cast itself into the turbulent wake of the machine. Like a string holds fast to the kite that seeks to pull away, the shimmering wings refused to abandon the draft that carried them toward the Royal City.

* * *

_If they wanted him dead why didn't they just kill him? _

The thought came as Noah drifted in the surreal space between sleep and waking. In the moment it was his battered body speaking through the voice of tense muscles rebelling in the futility of trying for a more comfortable position against the stone wall.

Armored footfalls echoed off the stone chambers. Voices, Dalmascan, spoke.  
Dream and reality blurred, present and past met and merged.

_Like a broken reflection, the armor upon wraithlike forms changed. The voices tilted. The walls themselves rearranged. _

_The question remained the same…  
If they wanted him dead…_

_His senses were dulled to the distasteful smells of the confines, the sweltering air, the mournful cries …_

No longer did Noah toss in the Dalmascan cage. No longer did he concern himself with the muted voices and heavy steps that came and went along the corridor outside his cell.

Now as then…

_His every perception was tuned to one thing… _

_ "Take me to our guest." _

_Could the Imperial Knights hear the tension in his voice?  
Had they seen the slight vibration in his hands before they closed into fists?  
Could they hear the echo of his heartbeat thundering inside his armor?  
Did they know how heavy his feet felt with every step?  
That the walls were closing in like a tunnel before him, lengthening the already endless path?  
How his vision blurred, and his chest tightened, and his stomach churned?  
That he was cold and hot, chilling and sweating at once…filled with dread and rage and despair and fear…_

_They were oblivious to the conflict festering inside him… He was oblivious to everything else._

_With every breath he told himself, "One more step…One more step," and he did not falter. _

_With every step he told himself, "Breathe…Breathe…," and he did not faint. _

_He could deceive them… He could not deceive himself._

_"Here, Your Honor." _

_ "Leave me." _

_His ears ignored his own words, the rescinding steps of his escort guards, the hard clatter of iron as he was left alone…_

_The eyes that were loosed from hellish darkness blinked, started, searched for focus...and found his. _

_Alone always, and alone never, in this lost nothingness between them._

_Only an instant revealed before the shutters of the soul closed, but for an instant the questions were there…  
…Why, Noah? Do you not remember? _

_And anger rose to counter…  
Why should I give answer when silence is all you offer me?  
And then…  
…How can I forget? …I can never forget._

_The eyes charged blame. …How could you? _

_Eyes hardened in silent reply. …You could never understand.  
…Help me, Basch…I cannot understand…_

_The lips that parted were bloodied, dry and cracked. …Thirsty…_

_What was in his own throat, cotton or bile? _

Noah swallowed and shifted restlessly. "Thirsty…"  
The Dalmascan guard heard the slurred mumble, and instinctively took up a canteen to slake his own thirst.

_The eyes, a lighter, lavender tinged rendering of his own, went out of focus, the head hung low.  
His own heart felt the silent groan tear from the depths of an injured soul. _

Noah's hand reached to his chest to scratch again at the familiar hurt. How well he knew the wound. Yet it bled, though there showed no stain. Scar upon invisible scar…the tear would not mend; the ache would not be soothed.

_"You have failed. Your purpose is lost. Why do you not die and save yourself this suffering?"  
…Save us both…brother…from this torment…  
…Do you not know it is why they let you live?_

* * *

She was sitting peacefully upon a balcony overlooking the Castle gardens, bathed in the half-light of early morn, when he found her dining there. At his armored footstep she turned her head.

"Judge Magister." She spoke formally. Her anger with him had been torn down by the constant barrage of evidence to support his innocence in this matter. …And yet she was reluctant to leave behind the security of her guardedness and risk her exposed pride without some clue that his response would be favorable.

"Ashelia."

His tone was cool and detached, and the Queen's eyes lifted to study his face.  
At once she experienced a swell of indignation. _He_ was angry with _her!  
_…And then she wondered… Had Larsa told him all?

"You have something to say?" She questioned calmly, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a beautiful, lace napkin to maintain her calm and so keep her control.  
…What _she_ wantedto say was, _"Stay, sit, eat with me. Talk with me awhile, as once we did. Comfort me that though all has changed some things remain as before."_

"Lord Larsa and I will be soon leaving for Archadia. I wished to thank you for working with the Emperor to resolve this conflict peaceably." Evenly his words came.

"I see…" She heard a touch of her own disappointment, and her eyes flitted to his face to see if she had betrayed herself. There was no change upon his emotionless face. "Is that all?" How she wished she knew what he was thinking. She hid her conflicted emotions as she sipped from the jewel encrusted goblet.

He waited silently for her to elucidate, and his silence vexed her.

"You do not wish to ask about the fate of our prisoner?" She rested her hands lightly in her lap.  
…As if she would not rather speak of _anyone_ but him.

Basch's eyes grew shadowed as his brow lowered. He turned his eyes away, but not before she caught a hint of frustration there. "You are no longer a child, Ashelia. To play such games is not befitting your station." His manner remained distant, but his tone now held an unconcealed note of disapproval.

"Hmph."

He glanced her way as her chin lifted in marked offense. The sharp tilt took him back to earlier years.

_A spirited woman-child she'd been at Larsa's age… A wild angel, full of independence and will.  
In one moment straining against any boundary set, in the next, like the change of the breeze, sweet and courteous she'd be. In her hands she held both the dagger to wound and the balm to heal.  
A handful, by her father's own words…A mere Captain dare not so speak.  
"You will help her to the right decision, Captain Basch. That is an order." King Raminas, wearied with his daughter's stubbornness but unwilling to yield to her desires, had commanded the Captain to settle a struggle with the growing Princess… She wanted to fight in the battles. _

_"But Basch!!!" How her slender foot had stamped, skirts flouncing, fist upon slight hip in defiance. It was easier to command a regiment than this young girl._

_"My lady, heed your father's word. It is not your time, Princess." And he had prayed the time would never come. _

_"You will protect me. And Captain Vossler."_

_"Yes, Princess..with my life. But is it not also your duty to consider those who must defend you? One day you will be strong enough to stand beside your friends. But wait… Wait until that day." …And may other interests have taken this desire from you by then…  
The hope had remained a silent one, not wishing to stir her to prove him wrong._

_"Fine. Then you will train me!" Her small, heart-shaped face had lifted defiantly, enhancing the pointed set of her chin. _

_This response he'd not anticipated…though with her he should have. …It had brought a touch of panic to his chest. Never had he wished to see the day she would wield a sword for more than decorative use. And this outcome was not fully that his King had entrusted him to effect… _

_In the end, however, Raminas had resigned himself to compromise, and given his favor to the instruction of his daughter to warfare by the Captain and other skilled warriors. It was perhaps the realization that war was stripping his house with the nation, and this flower might indeed be called upon to don petals of steel, that drove the King to conclude thus… _

_She had worked diligently, carefully minding the detail of instruction, at every opportunity seeking to further her ability._

_Though the hour, when it fell, had like a vulture swooped darkly over a heart less prepared, her skill in combat had not been found lacking. _

She met his eyes as they rested upon her, filled with seriousness. Her face flushed at the somberness of his gaze, and she felt the warmth of it. This served only to bring increase to her offended spirit.  
"You serve the Law- such as it is in the Empire." Fiercely her words sped from her pretty lips, armed to protect her heart and pride. "What say you, _Your Honor?_ Would you have the Kingslayer pay or would you spare him?"

Basch turned his eyes once more, but the hurt that for a moment was clearly present burned her.  
His tone was muted. "Whatever your decision, my lady, let it not be for my sake."

Did he know or did he not? _  
Tell me what you are thinking…_ It was what she wanted to say.  
Instead, her words became, "Must you be so..." She waved her hand in frustration.

"My lady?" Surprise and then regret appeared upon his face, and his lips tightened.

She rose abruptly, only narrowly avoiding upsetting the table.  
_Are you happy with Larsa in Archadia? Do you miss your life here?  
_As before her words changed along the path from her heart to her tongue. "Do you feel nothing?"

"Ashelia?" Basch took a step backward, and he seemed to recoil into the isolation of the armor that cloaked him.

_…If you would just say that you regret that you must go I would find a way to believe…_  
"Dalmasca was your home almost as long as it has been mine! Can you so easily cast her aside?"

Long after he had left her presence it remained with her, the flash of pain in his eyes, and his voice, quiet and wounded. "Ashelia…" She let him go without reply, for there was none to be given.

Silent and alone she sat upon the high tier, no longer hungered, watching the skyline turn to silver and then to gold as the sun filtered through in a promise of hope that she must hold to but did not for the moment feel.

* * *

"Were you leaving without saying goodbye?" Her voice rebuked him quietly from their doorway, and Lonnan turned guiltily. That is exactly what he'd planned.  
He didn't want to wake her or the children.  
She was tired; the little ones needed their sleep...  
……He hated even the word goodbye.

She narrowed her eyes, twisted her lips, and tilted her head, long dark hair falling over one eye. "You don't get off so easily, Knight."

He met her halfway across the room, and their arms tangled as they held one another close, the baby the only distance between.

A sudden impact to his shin rocked them, and he looked down to see a halo of dark curls bouncing at his knee. Vie clung to him like a monkey, grinning with the innocence of the toddler she was.

"Dad-dy!" She heaved herself against him once more, arms outstretched, and this time he caught her before she latched onto him, swinging her high.

"Hi, baby."

"I _not_ da baby!" Her little lips puckered angrily, her eyes glittering in offense. "I da big girl. Dat da baby." She pointed at her mother's swollen belly.

Aneera caught his eyes, and nodded, silently laughing. "She's right, you know. She's not the baby anymore."

A wave of sadness caught Lonnan. It was just yesterday, wasn't it, when he'd taken his newborn daughter into his arms for the first time? Where did the time go?

"Did you get big while Daddy wasn't looking?" He was just beginning to realize how much he'd missed.

Vie gave a definitive nod of the head, her arms crossed with blame.

"Well…" His voice was thick. "You'll always be _my_ baby girl. Always."

Lonnan brought her close, his lips pressed against the soft, velvet skin at the nape of her neck. For a moment her pout lingered, but quickly her storms gave way to sunshine and she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, kissing him sweetly.

"Daddy loves his baby Vie." He squeezed her gently.

"I wuv you too, Dad-dy." She grinned happily, and he was content to watch reflected light dance in her large, mischievous eyes.

She squirmed, and he set her down. His eyes followed her as she tottered off, leaving him lost in the moment, unable to tear away. And then he sighed. "Tell Healy…" Not goodbye. Never goodbye.

Aneera nodded as if she could read his thoughts, and kissed him one more time.

The door creaked as he went out, and she watched from the window, one hand upon the curtain and the other protectively over her unborn child, until he disappeared into the horizon and was gone.

"Be safe, Lonnan. Please…be safe."

* * *

"You do not appear to have suffered during the night. You are feeling stronger?"

"Yes, sir. Much, thank you. The very hope of my return to my company is the greatest medicine you can offer me."

The physician considered, and studied the young man. "If only I might impress upon you how fortunate you have been… Your wound could have been placed no better, young man. If the blade had cut just a breadth this way or that, the consequences would have been dire indeed."

"Then I am truly blessed and my enemy cursed. I will not waste my good fortune." The young soldier returned the healer's gaze with open sincerity and a glint of determination.

The small physician squinted in concentration, making notations upon his patient's chart. "You are young, and seem to heal well. But do not take for granted your health. Many a fool has believed himself immortal and raced merrily to his death. You must continue to rest and not overexert yourself, understand?"

"Yes, sir." The young soldier met the physician's eyes with all earnestness and unveiled excitement.

"I would not like to see you return here." The physician, his pride rankled yet by the events of the night past, spoke crisply to the young man.

"I will endeavor with all diligence to honor your request." The boy bowed his head in humble reverence, and the physician viewed him circumspectly.

"I suppose you must have your weapons of war. See the guard there. He will accommodate you."

"Thank you, kind sir."

"Well, go then!"

Happily the young soldier obliged him.

The guard was as helpful as promised. "Aramis Macall, is it?"

"That's what they tell me."

"Here you are, lad. Take care of yourself."

"Thank you. I so intend." The young soldier's eyes sparked with anticipation, and the guard shook his head at the boy's enthusiasm. "Look, boy, try not to get killed your first day back on duty, eh?"

Aramis strapped on his armor, and reverently studied his sword. "Do not concern yourself for my sake, my friend."

The guard, old enough to have been the young man's father, and assigned to the medical unit because of injuries that would not allow him heavier duty, sighed. "Fool kid."

Aramis heard the muttered words as he walked away, and a smile crossed his lips. "We'll see, my friend. We'll see."

* * *

Though the sword was a family heirloom, its design was nothing special to view. The distinction of the piece was in the secrets it kept.

When Aramis twisted the pommel it came off in his hand.

No, this sword's usefulness was not found in battle, but in more devious realms.

In the past it had housed poisons and covert correspondence. Now, it guarded something even more valuable.

Into the palm of his hand came a glittering substance, ground to a gleaming powder.  
Just looking upon it gave rise to his blood.

"I will be ready when you call, Father. Have faith in your son."

* * *

Even at this very early hour, more than one inquisitive Archadian citizen paused along their route to look in the busted windows of House Ranel. One such individual went so far as to try the door of the business. Perhaps it was mere curiosity and not an intent to pilfer what goods inside remained, and yet the guard who stepped between did not seem at all amused. The interest, if not quelled, was by his presence in the least tamed, and all went on their way.

Ila herself glanced at the manor and attached business. Aged, but, until the recent damage, well kept. Her eyes passed over the form of the guard standing by, and found him to be not the same as the soldier of the night past. She went on.

In her hand she held the smooth, woven handle of a good sized basket, its contents concealed by a fine linen napkin from view.

Her bronze hair was tied back in a loose bun, rebellious strands cascading from the haphazard knot to flow in wisps around her neck and face.

Her shoulders were bare and chilled in the crisp morning air. Cream and pewter colored drop sleeves pillowed around the upper expanse of her arms before suddenly becoming silver sheathes from just above her elbows to her wrists. There again they found increase of cloth, and draped long, cream ruffles over her hands.

The cream hued bodice of her garment was scoop-necked and fit snuggly against her curves until it met her hips. There the full pewter skirt parted, held back by decorative ties at each side of her waist. The separation of the train revealed legs clad in slim, black leggings, and feet bound by pewter sandal straps.

She was as striking as the morning sun and as subtle as the dew, and yet in her face there was a trace of weariness and the slightest line between her brown eyes to mark a night passed in restless thought. She had wakened often to check the fell object beneath her pillow, to rise and test the doors and windows, to peer out of her upper story room to the ground below…looking for what she did not know.

The cab driver knew her, and chatted about business and the weather for the few minutes of their travel. She listened politely, nodding and inserting a well-placed, "Mm-hm. Yes. How true," now and then. The talkative driver was satisfied simply to have someone to talk speak to, and Ila was content to let him ramble as her sporadic thoughts wandered.  
When she said goodbye and left him with a quiet smile, the driver waved heartily behind her, and then turned his concentration to the warm cinnamon roll held between his calloused fingers. "Anytime, love, anytime!"

At the entrance of Old Archades the guards frowned and looked her over dubiously. They themselves were only here because of orders. Why would any upstanding citizen _want_ to come to this place? But a guard in the distance recognized her, and came quickly to her aid with a friendly smile. "Miss Wittekind."

Ila uncovered the basket, and the knight grinned and helped himself. "Always good to see you, Ila." He swept his arm as if to clear away his colleagues. The other soldiers scowled, but their expressions smoothed when Ila offered the heaped selection of pastries to them as well.

The agreeable knight laughed lightly. "It's a good thing our enemies are armed with swords and not your sweet rolls, my lady, or else the Empire would have fallen long ago." He happily stepped aside to let her pass, and she could hear the three arguing over which of their choices was the best as she descended into the castaway city.

* * *

When lifted the cloak of night, like the dust of finely ground jewels so glittered the Archadian sunrise. It glanced off the street, glinted off windows of high-rise apartments, and caressed the towering magnificence of the Palace.

Knight Gracien fell in step with Judge Magister Zargabaath, and without looking his way the commander began to detail his expectations for the day.

"Emperor Larsa soon returns. He will find the Palace secured." Armor clanked in rhythm as the footfalls of the two blended as one even pulse.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Reinforce the watch about the prisoner of interest, and consider every inmate the highest threat. Better to be over cautious than to regret. Rotate the guard on the hour. If any betray aggression set him in chains."

"It will be done."

At an intersection of richly expansive hallway Lonnan joined them, and the familiar harmony was set.

"Sir Pryderi, you will gather a small detail and make way to the border to ascertain the mood of the Dalmascan post and citizenry. Complete your mission with prudence. We will not complicate our Emperor's task with so much as a foul breath toward our Dalmascan neighbors until such time as he would give word elsewise."

Dax' eyes slid to Lonnan at the suggestion of a renewal of conflict. And yet Lonnan nodded and accepted his charge without question. "Aye, Judge Magister."

"Go to." Zargabaath dismissed them in his abbreviated way, and left them for other parts, the measure of his steps uninterrupted by their absence.

Dax shared what information had come first to his ears as they made their way together.

Lonnan paused to readjust a gauntlet, and Dax studied him. "How are the children?"

Lonnan sighed, but happily, tenderness in his eyes. "Good."

Dax nodded, and echoed his friend. "Good."

"They are growing. Healy, Vie. Aneera also." Lonnan winked lightly at his friend.

"The, uh, pregnancy goes well, I take it?"

The subject opened, Lonnan continued unsolicited. "You should see for yourself. Dine with us when you can."

Dax smiled awkwardly, without commitment, and Lonnan did not press him. Best to wait for a more opportune time, when Dax, forever reluctant to, as he thought it, intrude, would have no excuse.

Lonnan amiably patted Dax' shoulder, and they parted ways to complete their appointed tasks.

* * *

Within the half-hour Lonnan Pryderi had assembled a team of only six including himself, keeping the number low so as not to be threatening to their Dalmascan neighbors in this volatile time, and taken to the skies in a light, swift airship.  
As the craft banked toward its final destination Lonnan cut his eyes toward the young soldier in the back window seat.

_"All I ask is a chance to serve. Surely you understand…"_

The boy had been injured by the pretender, shamed by allowing himself to be taken unawares, a happenstance that resulted not only in his own wounding but in the death of a prisoner.  
Lonnan did understand why the boy might seek some redemption.  
And yet the young knight had not been alone in being deceived. It could be said he'd already repaid any debt of honor he felt was owed by his own pain and suffering.

The other knights, most all of them veterans known to and trusted by Lonnan personally from years of service upon the Alexander, sat with unemotional expressions, unaffected outwardly by the mission, save a grimness in the eyes. These men took their cue from their commander; adopting Judge Magister Zargabaath's even, direct approach. Whether they went for diplomacy or found their deaths, they would meet each the same.  
This young knight, however, was not long of their company, having been reorganized into their ranks after the war, and had not the same calm.

The boy's face was paled and wore a strange sheen. Excitement and some part of agitation showed there. His eyes moved constantly, peering from the window to the ground below.  
Was he truly well? The physician's report promised so, and yet beads of sweat had formed upon the young man's forehead, and he licked his lips and shifted in his seat as if either highly nervous or uncomfortable.

Lonnan looked wearily at the younger knight, and groaned internally.  
As a soldier, yes, he did understand the desire to show worth. And yet, the last thing Lonna needed was a reckless man-child out to prove himself. Of course this same cause was perhaps why Lonnan had given in to the boy's plea to be chosen…  
Healy's face, eager and innocent… Vie's wide eyed exuberance… Not only did his being a Knight of the Empire impact his family...unconsciously, being a father had done something to change his view of his duty and those who answered to him…

As the airship made its descent, Lonnan addressed the few men. The soldiers attended his words to a man, and yet his admonishment was unnecessary and unintended for all but one of them, and all but this one knew.  
"Remember, we are here only to observe on behalf of Judge Magister Zargabaath. We are his eyes and ears, and must be vigilant at all times. Above all, do not offend or provoke the Dalmascans, or take any action that might be misconstrued as threatening to the guard or citizens. Understood?"

"Aye, yes, sir." They answered at once, and the young knight's voice was among the chorus.

Lonnan nodded, his lips tight as he took in the glow in the boy's eyes. Somberly, Lonnan determined that it was up to him to insure that his choice in this matter did not give Judge Magister Zargabaath cause to regret. They stepped from the airship, a clatter of armored feet upon the ramp and a dull thud of weight upon the dusty earth.

Dalmascans across the border peered with mixed curiosity and suspicion, but Lonnan carefully minded it not.

Dalmascan soldiers, shoulders and chests bared and shimmering as early morning light glanced off the filigreed metal that adorned their necks and wrists, glared through openly hostile eyes, but Lonnan graciously pretended not to see it.

The men followed his lead, avoiding eye contact that might be taken for challenge or antagonism.

Lonnan's eyes went to the boy, and he stopped abruptly as he saw him staring openly with an expression of dismay and longing across the border. Following the sight line, Lonnan saw a female form, her face shrouded by a crimson cloak. She lifted her hand, and the boy moved quickly.

Lonnan was swifter still. He put a straight arm in the young knight's chest, and his voice was stern. "Halt. That's an order."

"But, sir…" The boy's eyes were a tumultuous shimmer. "She's my sister."

* * *

"Here." The courier passed a letter into the hands of the knight on each side of Wulf, who walked past as if he was disinterested in the ritual. It saved them all from the awkwardness of acknowledging there would never be a letter from home addressed with his name.

Drystan followed him out upon the wall, and stood preoccupied, reading a lengthy letter.

When he was silent for so long, Wulf turned his eyes to watch from the corner of his eye, wondering if there was trouble. But then Drystan laughed lightly, and raised his eyes with a pleased sigh, and Wulf turned his gaze back to the grounds below.

Drystan chuckled again, trying to imagine the humorous scene described in his mother's correspondence. Wulf looked his way.

"Sorry." Drystan fought to tame his lips.

"Everyone okay?" It was a ridiculous question. Since when was laughter a sign of peril?

"Yes, sir. Doing well, thank you." Drystan glanced at the officer at his side. Everyone had a version of the story, but no one had ever heard the true account from his lips. Save Jaiger. Jaiger obviously had his trust. But that became a useless bit of knowledge since all knew the Captain would never say.

Some of the knights said he was a member of the Nabradian Royal family itself. A cousin to Rasler maybe. That he was, in fact, the last surviving heir to the fallen kingdom.  
Drystan had no opinion on this theory. It was true Wulf held the favor of Queen Ashe, whose good opinion did not come without reason…  
Some said he was a member of the Royal Guard who had deserted when Nabradia fell. That he now toiled in the service of Dalmasca as penance for his deed. Personally, Drystan doubted this rumor could be factual. Wulf's often abrupt and surly manner might not endear him to the men, but he had never shown sign of being anything but loyal and courageous.  
Other rumors were more personal, more painful to hear.  
It was widely accepted that he'd lost family in the destruction of Nabudis. Some said parents, brothers, sisters…some said a wife and babe were among the dead. Wild rumors were made the more cruel for the truth that must have in some part been embedded there. No one could say for certain, because Wulf would not speak of it.  
Drystan could admit to curiosity, but he was not fool enough to pry, nor was he insensitive enough to participate in the loose talk at Wulf's expense. After all, he had a family of his own. Parents and siblings… He'd not seen them in…well, too long. But there was comfort in knowing they were there… What if they were lost to him? What would _he_ do?

The paper ruffled in a sudden uptake in breeze, and it slipped from Drystan's hand. He grabbed for it, but Wulf had already snatched it from the air.

Wulf shoved it toward the knight, and watched as Drystan carefully smoothed the sheet. Crumpled by Wulf's armored fist, the stationary now wore a crinkled pattern.

"Sorry." The short apology caught Drystan off guard, but he managed not to stutter.

"I'd rather it be wrinkled than lost."

"Yeah." Wulf was at once melancholy, and turned his eyes toward the expanse beyond.

Drystan, uncomfortable, began to put the letter away.

"Lily."

"Sir?"

"Scented with lilies."

Drystan smiled, and removed a pressed bloom. "Compliments of my sister."

"Ah. Sister." The corner of Wulf's mouth tugged upward.

"_Little_ sister. …Why?"

"Thought maybe you had found a woman," Wulf remarked with a twinge of his lips.

"When do I have time to find a woman?" Drystan returned dryly.

Wulf suddenly laughed out loud for just a moment, and then his face resumed the aloof mask.

Drystan wore only an ornate plate over his bare chest, the inside padded to accommodate the lack of cloth between him and the piece. Leather straps held the armor to his body. He stuffed the letter next to his heart.

"Just you and your sister then?" Wulf's voice was carefully disinterested, but Drystan had worked alongside him long enough to sense that the questions were not haphazard.

"A younger sister and brother. I'm the eldest."

"Parents…?"

Drystan began to regret he'd not sought some other sector to read.  
"Doing fine, I suppose. …Last I saw them, anyway…"

"When was that?" The tenor of Wulf's voice was crisp and edged with hardness.

"Sir?"

"The war's over, or so they say. You don't think of going home?"

Drystan caught a touch of bleakness beneath the cold reprove in the words.  
He felt instantly shamed, and then irritated to be so effected when Wulf knew nothing of his reasons or circumstances.

And then, before Drystan found it necessary to attempt explanation, Wulf whirled and with a sharp whip of the worn cloak was gone.

* * *

The accusation of disloyalty was old…_ As you threw away our homeland?  
_And yet never had he thought to hear such from her lips.

It shook him more than he'd thought possible.

He had not thrown off his family, but gone to fight for them.  
He had not deserted Dalmasca, but worked to preserve peace for the good of their citizenry.

Dalmasca was duty only? His heart slyly mocked him, knowing the answer.  
He had loved this land and the people almost from the start, coming to cherish his time here, and to accept it as his home.  
You guard Larsa from _obligation?_ His spirit ridiculed the notion.  
His brother's request had given him this role, but he had come to care for the boy beyond the mission. Loathe he was to be separated from his side...

_When you abandoned home and kin…_A shade of doubt and discouragement crossed his heart.

He did what he must… But when duty turned to desire, when obligation became a wish fulfilled…was the virtue in the reason lost, the honor of the thing extinguished? Could he say he did what he must for them if it answered his own need?

Noah, slumped uncomfortably against the stone wall, stirred and opened his eyes dully, gazing through the bars to his brother's face.  
Basch, helm snugged to his side by one arm, met Noah's blank stare, but did not seem to see, his brow creased in thought.

Noah said nothing, uncertain of his conscious state.

Basch flinched against some unspoken and unseen provocation, and Noah saw the turmoil behind his brother's shrouded eyes.

His back tightened, and Noah had to shift, stretching his muscles to relieve the tension.  
The movement broke Basch from his contemplation, and he ran a hand over his face as if to push distractions away.

Noah wiped his eyes and mouth free of morning crust, and licked the crevices of his parched lips. He swallowed hard, his throat swollen and closed with dryness.

Basch turned and left him.

Noah's brow lifted, and then lowered in dark frustration. "Goodbye, brother." His voice was hard but quiet. He rose, stretched his long body, ignoring the pain and the cracking of bones moving into place, and, for lack of a better option, settled upon the hard cot to stare at the floor and walls.

The approach of footsteps made Noah lift his head.

"Here." It was Basch, and in his hand a canteen.

A storm of conflicting emotion rushed through Noah's heart. He did not attempt to sort it out. Craving of near dehydration drove him, and he rose slowly and approached the bars.

"I thought you might be thirsty."

The memory of his brother's cracked lips was quickly recovered, and twisted like a blade in Noah's spirit.  
_No, Basch… You knew I would be. _

Noah held his hand out, took the container, heavy with liquid, and lifted it to his lips.  
Taking a long taste and then another and another, the soothing water, cool and fresh, slid down Noah's throat. Finally satisfied, he emptied a portion into the palms of his hands to cleanse their filth, and then applied a refreshing splash to his face and neck.

Throughout, Basch watched unspeaking.

Finished, Noah replaced the lid upon the canteen, aware of his brother's eyes. Returning to the bars, Noah pushed the container through.

Basch's armored hand accepted the canteen, and his eyes glanced away, shadowed by a drawn brow. His lips parted, as if there was something he wished desperately to say, and then closed. He made a move as if to leave, hesitated, and then took a step.

Noah, bothered more by Basch's act of kindness than by when earlier he'd thought Basch to have gone, put a hand upon the bars. "Basch."

The armored figure halted without looking back.

"Thank you." Softly spoken, there was a note of boyish wistfulness in the tone.

Basch returned, and, as if drawn, lifted his own hand to match his brothers.

They stood, parted by the cage that held one in and shut one out.

Noah saw the grief in Basch's eyes, and was moved with sudden desire to comfort his twin.  
"Is something gone amiss?"

Basch shook his head, but his eyes betrayed him.

"Larsa?" Noah did not think this was the answer to his brother's uneasy demeanor, and yet he was bound to ask.

Basch blinked, and his eyes resumed their normal calm. "I will keep Larsa safe." His eyes cut a way, and Noah wondered even as he nodded the assurance of belief in his brother's vow.

A thought came to him, and with it spread a chill that as quickly gave way to acceptance. Perhaps, he considered, the Queen had at last concluded to put an end to this thing…and his life with it.

"Basch." Noah spoke his brother's name softly, and the taste of it was as dear to him as in the days when they ran barefoot through the fields. "Do the stars remain?"

Basch nodded solemnly. "Always." Their hands shifted, and their fingers twined.

_"There! I saw one, Noah!" Basch stabbed his finger toward the dark sky, tracing the path of a shooting star. _

_It was the best time of year to see the display, and the twins, as so many years before, had come to the field in the dead of night to witness the show. _

_"Oh, man! I missed it! Where? Where?" Noah whirled, and followed his brother's hand._

_"It's gone now. Sorry, Noah." _

_Noah sighed, discouraged. "I'm always looking in the wrong place. Are you sure you saw another, Basch?" _

_"Yes, I'm sure!" Basch smacked his brother's arm, offended by the question. _

_"Okay, okay! You saw another!" Noah shook off his frustration, eyes searching the sky as he spoke. "How many does that make for you?"_

_"Fifteen!" Basch grinned, refusing to be distracted from the sparkling heavens._

_Noah groaned. "I'm only at twelve."_

_"You saw more last year," Basch reminded him, and Noah's face lit with a proud smile._

_"Yeah, twenty-five. Dad said that was a record for one night!"_

_Suddenly silence overtook them. _

_The ritual had been observed for years. That was true.  
But this was the first year it had been only the two of them.  
In all others their parents had been present as well, all four of them laughing and competing for the most sightings._

_The death of their father had changed many details of their routine, but most of all their mother…  
When they'd asked her to come, tried to persuade her with all the charm, sentiment, and helpfulness they could manage, she had patted their shoulders and tiredly turned away, "You go on without me, boys. I think I'll just turn in early." _

_"But mother…the stars…" Basch implored. _

_"We want you to see them too." Noah entreated. _

_Their protests and pleas had fallen upon deaf ears. _

_"The stars, my loves, are there whether or not one sees them." She had spoken wearily and withdrawn from them with a gentle smile and saddened eyes, leaving them grieved. _

_"Do you still want to go? It won't be the same…" Noah's disappointment clearly showed. _

_Basch considered, lips pursed in thought, and then turned his eyes determinedly to his brother. "Yes, father would not want us to miss. And we can tell her all about it."_

_Noah was not altogether convinced, turning shadowed eyes, deeply concerned, toward the hallway where their mother had disappeared. But Basch's determination had won out, and they had made their way together, less excited than before, perhaps, but comforted each in the presence of the other. _

_"There, Basch! And there! Woo-Hoo! Fourteen!" Noah jumped excitedly, pumping his fist._

_"Are you sure you saw them, Noah?" Basch teased mockingly, and dodged his brother's hand, though not the foot that smacked his backside. He scowled for only a moment. His pleasure would not be suppressed. This kind of easy fun had been rare over the past year. "Sixteen!" _

_"Fifteen!"_

_"Seventeen, eighteen!"_

_The count continued to climb. _

_"Twenty-three!" Basch called out, raising his arms in victory. "Your record is in jeopardy!"_

_Noah was suddenly quiet and sober, turning his gaze from the sky. _

_Basch responded with exasperation. "Oh come on, Noah."_

_"I'm going to go on in."_

_The stars were forgotten. _

_"Are you serious?!" Basch let his weight fall on one hip, his head cocked incredulously. "You're that mad I might beat your record?"_

_"No. It's okay. Good luck." Noah kept his eyes directed away from the sky, trudging toward the house._

_Basch caught him in a few steps, stars shooting by unseen overhead. "Noah! You're being-" He stopped, shocked by the tears upon his brother's face. "Wh-what's wrong?"_

_"They won't be here to see." Noah swallowed hard, wiping his face with his arm as moisture spilled from his eyes, angered at being caught acting like such a baby even by his twin. _

_Basch was silent, rubbing his brother's shoulder. Too much had changed in this past year, and there had been little enough time to grieve for all that was lost. But surely their father would be glad to know that they had not let his death change them at heart. It was his example they followed in purposing to continue. He would want this._

_"Stay, Noah. Father would not want us to quit. We can't." It was important, very important, to Basch. His stomach was tight, his jaw tensed. He could not give in to this sorrow that challenged his peace. He had to fight it, and if that meant counting stars, then that's what he would do to prove that he would never be taken by the despair that loomed like a great beast in the corners of his heart. _

_"If-if I said you won, could maybe we stop counting, Basch? I mean, mother said the stars are there anyway… So, really, we only counted twenty-five last year. It's not like that's all that were there, right? And if we don't count, then…"_

_"Sure, Noah." Basch was really pretty unsure of the sense in this argument, but it meant something to his brother, and whatever allowed them to linger and fight the darkness awhile longer was worthwhile. _

_"Thanks, Basch." _

_"Sure." _

_Embarrassed now they returned to their choice spot to wait. _

_Noah lay down, unwinding arms and legs that had stretched within the past year. More change. _

_Basch eased a body equally lengthened to the earth at his brother's side, and watched silently as glowing bursts of white shot across the sky. In his mind he rebelliously kept count, "Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…," and he imagined his father's congratulatory smile. Still, he kept his promise and his silence for his brother's sake. _

_"The sky is beautiful at night, isn't it, Basch?" A slight smile returned to Noah's lips._

_"Yes. …Do you ever wonder what she sees?" Basch asked curiously. _

_"What do you mean?" Noah turned his head to study his brother curiously._

_"The sky. …It goes on forever…I wonder what it's like up there, what she sees beyond us."_

_"Maybe it's lonely, apart from everything like that." Noah's voice was quiet. He turned his eyes toward the house, and Basch's gaze followed his. _

_There was a single light shining from the window of their father's study. It was there they so often found her of a morning now, clothed yet in the garments she'd the day before worn, kneeling beside the couch, tears, dried and fresh, staining her thinned cheeks. _

_"Do you want to go back?" Basch yielded, and Noah was to his feet at once, offering him a hand. _

_Together they walked back, and Noah bent to snatch a flowering weed, careful it was not the poisonous variety._

_At the door Noah continued on. "Mother?" But Basch turned and looked to the sky in time to see one last star race across the velvet carpet. "Thirty-three, father." He smiled, pleased, and the door shut behind him._

The recollection was dear to both, though the scenes that played before their eyes gave to each a unique view.

_Never surrender…_ Basch heard his spirit whisper.  
_Even when we do not see…_ Noah felt rather than heard the wistful offering.  
The weave of their hands tightened, bound for an instant in a moment of faithless peace.


	32. The Flame of Love

The eyes that had looked to him once brightly with laughter and love had faded with sorrow and suffering and finally turned from Noah on the day he'd stolen his brother's honor.

If those eyes were upon him now he would not know. He could not bear to look.

"_I have two sons, and love neither more…"_ The voice was grieved and worn.

Basch had frozen the image of warm eyes to keep tucked in the deepest recesses of his heart through long and lonely days and longer nights.

"_Your father would be proud…"_ The eyes had sparkled…was it the reflection of starlight, as he'd told himself then, or tears, as his heart now accused? The voice was soft, full of feeling.

And here, now, the voice remained…

"_Stay… Stay with him. …Stay."_ The voice whispered gentle words that resonated through Basch's heart as with every long stride the distance increased.

Left behind, the voice softly echoed though the caverns of Noah's soul, _"Let him go… Let him go."_

* * *

The Dalmascan soldiers at the checkpoint glared unsociably and kept their hands upon the grips of their swords at all times. Their Archadian counterparts studied the terrain, horizon, and each face that was given permit to cross the blockade.

The civilians were some of them annoyed; others were fearful. Their faces wore either looks of aggravation, their movements jerky with anger, or were lined with worry, their heads lowered, shoulders hunched under unseen weight.

This tension served only as an interruption to the healing of wounds that were yet fresh.  
How much longer could the people endure it without either exploding under the stress or simply fading away like the dust that swept the bones of the unclaimed war-dead?

Lonnan sighed heavily, thinking on his young brood…  
These things must be settled before the chapter of their childhood had closed…  
Too quickly time passed, and he could not bear the thought of a day that would bring Healy here in his place, sword in hand, cause little Vie to live with shielded eyes and armored heart, and bring the babe to adulthood under violence that he as their father might have changed. Their futures, their fates, fell upon him.

While the other Imperial Knights kept their eyes diverted just enough to seem disinterested in what they closely observed, Lonnan held an arm in front of the trembling young soldier at his side, and stared across the invisible line. He turned his eyes from the cloaked form to that of a Dalmascan warrior of some rank. Slightly he moved his free hand to indicate the civilian, and watched as the Dalmascan soldier, irritation upon the lowered brow, at once hindered the path of the advancing woman to discern her intent.

Lonnan felt the young soldier lurch forward impulsively against the barrier of his arm. "Stay." Lonnan's voice was calm but deep and as unyielding as his arm. The boy stayed, but could not stop the restless shifting of his feet.  
"Tell me, Aramis Macall, what business has your sister had in Dalmasca?"

"She has been living and working there in the cause of peace." The cultured tone shook slightly.

"Really." It wasn't a question but a cautious reflection as Lonnan continued to observe the Dalmascan officer interrogating the young woman across the way.

"Yes, sir. My dear sister is innocent any offense! She must not be harmed!"

There was a hint of command mixed with desperation in his tone, and Lonnan's eyes betrayed annoyance as they turned from the young woman to the boy. The young soldier's face was so pale he looked ill. His breathing was irregular, taken between trembling lips and clenched teeth. His eyes were glazed. He looked as if he might at any time faint.  
"Calm yourself, Aramis." Lonnan's voice was low and steady. "A Knight of the Empire should not show weakness when the eyes of his enemy are upon him. No harm has come upon your sister. If her intentions prove benevolent, as you say, you shall soon be reunited."

"Ye-yes, sir." Again the boy shuddered, and his eyes closed tightly as his fists suddenly clenched his superior officer's armored forearm to steady himself.

Lonnan frowned, and determined that upon their return the boy should be evaluated. Perhaps the recent events had done more damage than thought. He would recommend the boy be reassigned to some position of lesser stress for his sake-and of lesser priority for the good of all.

The Dalmascan officer lifted a hand toward Lonnan who in turn nodded almost imperceptibly, shaking off the boy's hands to take a grip on his elbow. "Whatever decision has been made, we accept without complaint, understand?"

"Yes." The answer was compliant enough, but there was a touch of hardness in the tone that did not escape Lonnan's ears.

The young woman now advanced toward them unimpeded, though trailed closely by the Dalmascan Knight.

"Do you know this woman?" The Dalmascan addressed the young soldier, ignoring Lonnan entirely.

"Sister!" Aramis, impassioned, cried, and held out his hands.

"What was your business in Dalmasca?" Lonnan asked mildly, in no measure relaxing his hold.

"I am Ciel Macall. My parents- our parents," She fondly viewed her brother, "were scientists killed with the destruction of the Leviathin. I now work in their name to help those most impacted by the war, good Sir. It is my hope that my aid might bring some unity to the cause of peace."

Lonnan exchanged a quick look with the Dalmascan. Their stories matched, and yet he was uneasy.  
"I will allow you to speak with your sister, but you must not leave your post."

"Yes, sir." There was a giddy flavor to the boy's tone.

"Hear me, Aramis! Remember your duty, or you will find yourself separated from your sister by bars and chains."

Aramis turned shining eyes with great intensity toward his commanding officer. "I will never forget. This I can well promise you."

Lonnan's jaw tensed slightly. Was there a hint of a condescending nature in the soldier's manner?

He knew well that above the successful missions in which he'd played a priority role, it was his ability to maintain a calm, clear approach that had elevated him to a position in Zargabaath's trust. It was the same for Dax, who managed to exude a quiet, enduring strength in the most trying of times.  
And being a father had itself helped teach patience.  
Still, the young man's disruptive behavior was fraying Lonnan's nerves, though he was loathe to admit it.

As Aramis and his sister moved away a few yards to stand linked arm in arm, Lonnan turned to address the Dalmascan knight.

"I am Sir Lonnan Pryderi, Knight of Archadia."

She removed her helm, and ran a hand through thick, matted auburn locks. "_Captain_ Magan Anavae, Knight of Dalmasca." Her pale eyes dared him to test her. Lonnan did not oblige.

"How goes it?" He mildly queried, nodding toward the lines of civilians. Those wishing to pass from Dalmasca toward the Archadian territory were undergoing questioning and security checks, while those who approached from the Archadian side were only allowed entry if they could prove Dalmascan citizenship and otherwise went away.  
More than one Archadian soldier now found himself entertaining complaints from Archadian merchants, sitting idle with their wares along a border they were not allowed to cross.  
It was a frustrating thing to behold, and yet Lonnan's manner did not betray his feelings.

"As well as it should, I expect." Her full lips, dry and cracked from the desert heat and abrasive sand, twisted in mocking irony as her eyelids fell like guillotines to hover dangerously over light blue irises. Her bare arms crossed over an armored chest as she looked for his offended Archadian pride to reveal itself.

"Can we be of service in any way? I can imagine the people are rancorous at times?" His voice remained calm and obliging.

Her eyes flashed, and if those lids had indeed been blades he'd have met his doom in a blink of her gaze. "Thank you for your concern, Sir Pryderi of Archadia." She spit his name and nation from her chapped lips as if a curse. "We have no need of your aid. I assure you, the Knights of Dalmasca are most capable." Cold and cutting as was her tone, he'd have flinched and looked for blood upon his skin if he had not more than once endured the bite of steel through his flesh and bone.

She turned on her sand-encrusted, booted heel and strode defiantly toward the boundary.

* * *

"You? Here!" Affection and devotion crossed the young soldier's face as he moved his hands from his sister's arms to her shoulders and then her face. "Ah…how dear you are to me. How long it has been since I have drunk from the sight of your eyes and the touch of your hand, my beloved sister."

Her eyes caressed him with as much caring as was given her. "My brother, I feared when first I saw you… But now I find that though the armor be of the Empire, and your visage be acclimated to their ways, your heart truly remains unchanged."

"The fool." Aramis' soft eyes cut toward his commanding officer with unveiled contempt. "Did you hear, sister, how he spoke of _duty_ to the _Empire_ as if it were a precious thing?" And then haughty disdain fell away and Aramis' face grew saddened. "Did you doubt me, sister?"

"Not you, brother. Never. Myself only, and I beg your forgiveness for my weakness." She bowed her head to him in shame, but he lifted her chin.

"Darling one, I carry your weakness as you carry mine, and we are both made the stronger. Is it not so? Has it not ever been?"

Tears shined in her eyes. "Your wisdom is a credit to our father's name."

"And the purity of your heart the same." Aramis kissed her cheek, and then pulled away with a deep sigh. He shot a look from the corner of his eye toward the officer, and spoke in a hushed tone. "How I wish I could shed this burdensome moniker I carry. _Macall._ It has the sound of a Cockatrice herder." He spoke the name with a sharp aversion. "I would gladly return it to those from whom we borrowed. How I long to taste again that one so cherished name upon my lips."

Ciel leaned close, her soft blonde hair fluttering in the wind. "My brother, you are, and will always be, Aramis Denali."

"Ah! Ah!!" Aramis threw back his head and drank in the air with closed eyes, and then forcefully he grasped her arms, his eyes ablaze. "Say it again. I beg you, sister…say it again."

"Aramis_ Denali_." She spoke so tenderly it brought tears to his eyes, and he groaned against the emotion that swept him.

Concern glanced across her refined features. "Aramis, dear brother, are you well?"

He looked again to her, his breathing uneven, his lips turned in strange glee. "Sister…I am ready. What is our father's word for me?"

Suddenly she grew pensive, her eyes turning from him in worry. "Aramis…"

"Tell me! What is it he requires of me? Did you not hear me? I am ready! Look in my eyes and see!" His hands were shaking madly upon her arms, so much so that it made her tremble like a weed in his grasp.

"I-I do see…" She spoke numbly as she peered into his eyes. "You should not have done it… It is not time… You are not prepared... You could harm yourself… You could…"

"Do not doubt me!!" He had foolishly allowed his voice to rise, and Aramis turned his head quickly toward Sir Pryderi to espy if the officer had overheard.

"Do not worry yourself. The sound of the people drowned out our words." Ciel reassured her brother soothingly, her eyes uncertain and distressed.

Her words were true enough. Civilians were mingling between, their chatter and general chaotic state of being acting as a buffer, and yet he was not appeased. Aramis tightened his unsteady grip and pulled her further away.

His trembling body and faltering gait almost caused the two to tumble together. She managed to keep her balance, and tried to pull away, but he would not relinquish his claim. "Ciel! You cannot leave me this way! Not without some direction!" Tears were in his voice and upon his cheeks. "I did not know what I would find when I came here today. I told myself to come prepared and to look for a sign." Hope blazed, sparkling in the shimmer of his dew filled eyes. "And here you are! Here you are… And now you _must_ tell me… What does our noble father wish of me? What might I do to prove my worth? Tell me! Tell me, and I will do!" Desperation and need flowed from him so strongly that she could not bear it.

She laid her head upon his chest. "Brother." She could feel his heart pounded erratically there.

"Please, Ciel. Please?" His fingers unconsciously dug into her slender arms, breaking the tender skin and causing a flow of crimson beneath his palms.

"Dear Brother… I cannot." Tears ran freely now upon Ciel's face, not for the pain of any physical wound.  
Aramis' eyes were bright with fear and anguish for his sister and for the unnamed torment that he felt in her face.

"Why, Ciel? Why would you withhold our father's direction from me? Why would you-"

She leaned into him, laying her head upon his chest. He loosened his grip, and she pulled back to look up into the unnatural glow of his eyes. She took his face between her hands, and caressed his still downy cheeks. "Aramis…brother…our beloved father is slain."

* * *

Something, a spark perhaps, or a crackle of flame, caught Lonnan's eye or ear. In the same heartbeat the Dalmascan Captain froze in her tracks, and spun in that same direction as he.

Lonnan, closest, moved first. His senses, instincts, and years of experience taking over. With this pulsing drive that carried him forward he also heard the Judge Magister's words of warning, remembered the importance of their mission, saw the civilians in harm's way.

The Dalmascan Captain's voice combined with the Archadian's, each calling out orders to their knights, but who was to hear? Their world was aflame.

Magan, in motion, darting after Lonnan into the heart of danger with her sword raised, saw the child at the same instant he did, called out a warning, saw the Archadian hurl himself through the air, and then a massive cloud of smoke blinded them all and sent Magan, choking, to her knees.

She crawled through the fog, tears brought on by the thick gray billows streaming down her face, searching for survivors, for the cursed Imperialist soldier who had been the cause of this thing.

The red cloak of the sister, Ciel Macall, lay in a loose pillow upon the sand and stone of now charred earth, but there was no body. Neither sibling remained.

Bewildered by the events and gasping for breath in the thick air, Magan suddenly felt her body chill. She dug into the earth, dark red hair pasted to her forehead and cheeks, ignoring the pain of stones tearing her bare hands. The child… The child was lying there, pinned beneath the prone body of the Archadian Knight…

* * *

Inside a spacious chamber usually reserved for a notable guest, Zargabaath stood grimly, listening closely as the female physician spoke, and stopping her to interject his thoughts or to ask a question now and then. "You believe, then, that she was poisoned…" He murmured forbiddingly.

"I have no doubt, though I have yet to isolate the root of the contamination. This unidentified agent has worked to oppress the patient's ability to heal, leaving her weak and vulnerable."

Zargabaath frowned in thought. "A sapping effect?"

"Not entirely. Truly more of a suppressant, it seems. If actively her life force had been drained she would not have lingered this long, and we would be having this conversation over her autopsy, Your Honor."

"Was the bullet itself to blame? A residual shard perhaps, laced with some malicious ingredient?" Zargabaath's meticulous mind was at work sorting out the mystery.

"Such is what I had expected to find as the cause of her malady, but did not."

"Hm." The Judge Magister tented his fingertips beneath lips pursed in concentration. "I will authorize a detail of knights for your service. If you should need any particular ingredient found, it will be so."

"Thank you." The woman's eyes widened, and there was cautious surprise in her tone. "I believe, however, that I have here all that I need. I have begun the process to purify her blood. Already she is resting more easily, you have surely seen." It was factual that the physician worked to do all she could. And yet, the recovery of the woman was in truth as much a mystery as the cause of her decline. The lady had resisted healing despite their best attempts, and now, when the physicians were at their wits end, their patient aspired to grow in strength.  
…The Judge Magister did not need to know that the credit belonged less to the medical team than to the woman's will or blessed fate.

"Then the bit of color I see there is not an illusion or a fever?"

"No, Your Honor. She is growing stronger."

"It is strange that Master Gervys did not see this…" Judge Magister Zargabaath turned watchful eyes upon the physician.

The woman, Kaula, looked worried. "The fault lies not with Gervys, Your Honor. I examined the lady myself when she was brought in, and I assure you her wounds were as the Master stated. Perhaps the contaminant came not with her."

Zargabaath was suddenly alert. "Perhaps it found her _here_…" The words were muttered under his breath, but then he pointedly addressed the physician. "Who had access to this woman?"

The woman's face blanched, and she swallowed. "The medical staff, Judge Magister… Perhaps a few of the patients whose rooms were close by. I-"

"Thank you." Zargabaath turned at once to leave. "Stay in these quarters until further notice. If you have need of anything alert the guards outside this door. It will be brought to you."

"Yes, Your Honor." The physician wrung her hands nervously as the heavy doors shut out the sight of the Judge Magister and the Knights along the hallway.

Such was the risk when accepting a position within the Palace… Her parents had warned her against it. The price of failure was too high. The step from protection to imprisonment, her father had told her after his many years service as a knight, was such a small and precarious one that at times it was difficult to know which side one fell upon until it was too late.

Her hands shook a bit as she reached for a potion. She looked at the face of the pale woman lying serenely upon the bed, and for a moment envied her the calm. She took a long swig on the vial, and after a moment her hands stopped shaking. She drew a deep breath, pressing her hand to her heart. Then she smoothed back her hair, and put the fearful thoughts aside. She would pray that the lady recovered from this strange woe, and assume the soldiers outside the door were her guardians…until she was told otherwise.

* * *

Cradled in the still arms of the knight, the child stared with wide-eyed terror. And yet they were the eyes of the living. A prayer of gratitude slipped from between Magan's soot darkened lips. For the Archadian she had no such hope. Despite the armor that covered his body, the Imperial knight lay limp and unmoving, still as death.

Without pausing to ascertain the truth of his fate, she pried his frozen arms away from the child, and took the little girl up to carry her quickly from the eerie smoke.

The child seemed fine, save a few bumps and bruises and a fine dusting of ash upon her skin and in her light hair. Begrudgingly Magan had to acknowledge, the Archadian had shielded her well.

The knights, Dalmascan and Archadian, worked side by side, searching for wounded civilians, bandaging wounds, sharing what potions and supplies they had, and preparing to load up a transport of the most gravely injured.

"Where is the commander? Where is Sir Pryderi?" One of the Archadian guards asked no one in particular, and Magan motioned behind her. The knight called to a companion, and both ran into the murkiness.  
Moments later they appeared, carrying the officer carefully in their arms, grave looks on both faces.

Magan could not allow regret for her attitude toward the Archadian. In fact there was a part of her that held him to blame for these events. And yet she felt sympathy for his men.

She had not long past advanced to her position upon the death of another. There had been no celebration in the ranks or in her heart at her promotion, only an understanding that when it was her time to fall another would take her place as well, and a hope that there would be someone who knew her name left to remember.

"Anjali! Anjali!" A woman ran, stumbling, through the thick fog, a damp scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth. "Oh, my Anjali!"

"Mama!" The child, until now lying silent and still in Magan's arms, now leapt from her embrace to that of her mother.

The two clutched, shaking with tears until at last the Dalmascan woman looked up from where she knelt and into the Captain's face. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. How can I ever repay?"

"It is not to me thanks are due." Magan spoke with reserve, her eyes shifting toward where the Archadian's loaded the limp body of their commander into the light airship for transport.

The Dalmascan mother, widowed in the war against the Imperialists, shrunk back, her face wary and conflicted. She soberly gathered up her little one, hesitated, looking with an unreadable expression toward the airship, and then, with her arms tightly wrapped around her daughter, walked wearily away.

* * *

At six years age, curious and attentive, Jaiger had stood by the street at the outskirts of the City, his own hand clasped in his father's larger palm, bare feet upon brick made hot under the harsh light of mid-day, watching as a company of Knights paraded past.

The sober young knight had not looked their way, steadfastly fixed on some indefinable point ahead…

Two years later Jaiger had been wakened from his sleep by the roar of nearby blasts that shocked his young mind, numbed his ears, and shook the walls and very earth. His mother's trembling hands had come to tuck a blanket about his shoulders as he was pulled into his father's arms. Then they ran, he being jostled against his firm chest, toward the shelter of the City too far away.  
His father had tripped and fallen, spilling him to the ground. His mother had been there at once to pull him up, his father groaning as he came to his knees, the three of them stumbling forward in their startled flight.

The pounding of mounts racing their way mixed with the clatter of steel had served only to bring a new wave of panic to his terror. And then the clutch of an armored hand, reaching down to snatch his and swing him lightly into place upon the Chocobo, and the murmur of a low voice had ushered him to safety.

He had wakened to his parents, his father wounded but healing, his mother bruised and pale but otherwise well, in a small hospital within Rabanastre.  
Their home had survived the explosions more or less intact, but the family had never returned, opting instead for the believed safety of the Royal City.

He had not met the man who had with others saved them that day, but he had not forgotten.  
It was why he had joined the cause.  
And it was why his very soul had been shaken by the betrayal that had brought the death of the King and overthrown their Kingdom.  
…It was the fall of the hero…

This act of ultimate betrayal had shaken the resolve of many knights, scattering them to doubt and disillusionment.  
If they could not trust the decorated Captain who had led them with seeming fidelity and selfless courage through so many struggles, who could they trust? Could they trust even their own hearts to be true?

Jaiger remembered the waves of nausea that had bent him to the ground when he had learned of the fell deed. He had lifted his head to watch with blurred eyes the surreal specter of death and destruction as all he defended was torn. His lips had prayed it was only a nightmare, while his spirit warned he would never awaken from this sinister darkness.

But then he had heard the cries…the cries of the mothers, fathers, and children, who ran through the streets in terror.  
In their cries he heard his own so many years past. In their faces and outstretched hands he felt the fear he'd once known. And somehow he had found his feet. Somehow, he remembered not the way, he had gone on…for their sake.

His thoughts turned once more to the young Captain who had seen his family to safety.  
Could what was broken be mended? Could what was fallen be set aright?

A bittersweet smile glanced off Jaiger's lips as he fought against the hurt in his chest. A hurt old and new.  
Though he had tried to act indifferent, though he knew as a true Knight of Dalmasca he should be, the scene he'd been made to witness between his Queen and the young Archadian Emperor the night past had left a mark.

There was no room for selfishness of resentment. And yet…  
Jaiger could not now deny that he had taken more pleasure in her approval than he'd realized.  
Counted more on her favor and faith than he'd known.  
Enjoyed the honor of standing at her side in a way he'd not seen…

Upon the parapet, Jaiger's dark eyes turned softly toward the horizon.  
If this was the Lady'swish, he would give his support. …Than for her safety and happiness, he wished nothing more.

He caught a strange glimmer and then a thin pillar of smoke on the horizon. All thoughts of his own lot vanished, made subservient to the Kingdom's need.

* * *

With morning sunshine lightening the sky and Kasan closing on the Castle grounds, the wispy strand in his wake, like a string broken, fell away toward the earth.  
Kasan never observed the sight, his eyes forward set.

What he did see, however, was a patrol of Dalmascan knights in the street below. At once he cut toward the group, landing with a skid upon the cobbled street before them.

Surrounded at once by swords and bows and pistols, Kasan should have been more than a little concerned. He was instead relieved.

"I need an audience with the Queen. There is a conspiracy I must reveal only to her ears."

"Really." The gruff knight looked him up and down.

Kasan was oblivious to the image he projected, but the knights studied him dubiously, sharing knowing looks behind his back.

His long hair was matted, damp and muddy, hanging heavily against his shoulders. His clothing, the parts that weren't shredded, were caked with mud and blood, his bare feet the same. His hands had been partially cleaned by the wind and dew, but still were grimy and crimson stained. He looked like a wild man, and his story was no more tame.

"What do you think, Bernal?" A young knight asked the self-appointed leader.

Bernal scoffed. "Drunk. Take him to the city cells."

"No!" Kasan jerked away from the young knight's grasp. "I'm _not_ drunk. I'm telling you, your people are in danger!"

"Hey, you Archadian?" One of the Knights asked suddenly, and all eyes were alert.

"Yes, I am. But you have to listen to me. I-"

"We don't have to listen to anything you say, Imperialist." Bernal shoved him, and Kasan, wearied, stumbled against others of the group. "Maybe," the knight's voice dropped dangerously, "we won't waste a cell on you."

"Bernal." A calm voice interjected quietly.

Bernal bristled. "What now, Shyre?"

"There are civilians watching." The knight who spoke had a reasonable look to him, and Kasan felt hope.

"Let 'em watch." Bernal snarled. "They deserve a little treat."

"And have word get to the Queen that her knights undermine her work and disobey her command?" Shyre's cool voice never lifted, but his tone was determined.

Bernal clearly wanted to ignore the rationale, but at the mention of the Queen's directive he'd lost support of the group. "Fine." He turned away.

Shyre motioned to one of the young knights. "Get him some coffee and let him go."

"No!" Kasan grabbed Shyre's arm, and the knight turned briskly toward him.

"I don't think you understand how close you've come." Shyre's tone never heightened, but his eyes showed a new level of seriousness.

Kasan tightened his grip and matched him in intensity. "You're wrong. I know exactly how close I've come. And how far."

Shyre frowned.

"Move, Shyre."

Shyre turned and Kasan found he was too weak to hold him back.

The young knight who'd been given charge of him closed in, but Kasan called after Shyre. "You know, I stole this bike. I'll steal or destroy whatever I have to in order to make you listen."

Shyre turned slowly, his eyebrow lifted, and then he dropped his head tiredly, walking back to stand before him.  
"Were you born a fool, or did you acquire the gift later in life?" He asked drolly.

"I'm not a fool, Shyre. Not about this at least." His thoughts turned to Dwen, but as quickly he recovered. "You will be the fool who left his Queen vulnerable and his people open to attack if you turn me away. Is that how you want to be remembered?"

Shyre watched him closely.

"Stole this bike, you say?" Bernal was back, taking over. Kasan held Shyre's gaze. He knew that if he was to find a sympathetic ear to his cause it would not come in the form of Bernal.

"Outside of an inn at the edge of the city. I'm sure you'll hear reports soon enough."

"Good! A drunk and a thief. Looks like the City will have the pleasure of your company for awhile longer…eh, what are you called?"

"Kasan Ranel."

"Kasan Ranel?" Shyre stepped forward at once, and motioned back the knights that meant to detain Kasan.

"That's right."

Bernal grumbled under his breath, kicked the hoverbike, and shoved spitefully at one of the young guards. "Return that machine, and get back to patrol."

Shyre smiled slightly, and motioned Kasan to follow toward the Royal sector.

* * *

Ila stood before the litter of crates full of fresh ingredients, sought out and gathered each by hand. It was difficult to find such succulent varieties, and it was well worth every Gil she spent. Her menu would be even better than usual tonight.

"Your _Gabby_ coming for dinner?" A cool voice interrupted her examination of an exquisite vegetable, and Ila scowled.

"Get away from me, Jules."

"Ah!" He staggered back. "I'm wounded!"

"You will be if you don't leave." Ila's deadpan reply brought a hearty chuckle from a pair of cynical lips.

"Now, now, Ila, dear, you don't mean that." A secretive smile glanced across his smooth, unruffled face as his fingers traced her bare shoulder.

Ila turned her dark eyes coldly toward him, and Jules lifted his hands away with a sly, slightly entertained air. "Okay, maybe you do. What a hostile expression from such a pretty face. I'd be offended, were I not the charming and lovable individual that I am."

"Right." Ila simply returned to her study, sniffing a root, lightly caressing a luscious fruit. "Thank you. Have them brought to my business right away." She spoke to the vender, a middle-aged man who once had been an accountant for a noted firm. This before he was accused of siphoning funds to pay for his obsession with food. He'd lost his respectable livelihood, but not his superb taste and strict eye for quality…nor his love of fine cuisine.  
She paid him well. It was a profitable exchange for both. Maybe soon he could afford to find his way back to higher society.

"Let us be candid, my dear." Jules would not be deterred. His sharp eyes were studying her too closely.

"Yes. Let's." Ila turned briskly. "I am _not_ _your dear_."

Jules moved after her with a knowing glint and an amused twist of the lips.  
"Perhaps not. But then, I suspect you to be lonely for a bit of male companionship these days…"

"Well, that leaves you out." The swift reply was cutting.

Jules put a hand to his heart and coughed out, "Ah, twice you have struck. A third and you may kill me!" The humor was stirred with a shard of sarcasm.

"Oh, shut up." Ila turned, trying to escape his attention, and found herself staring into the faces of a dozen children of assorted ages. The young ones crowded up close, while the older ones of the group stayed back, trying to appear indifferent and aloof.

"Miss Ila? Did you bring anything for us?" A young girl shyly spoke up, and the oldest ones scowled, conflicted between relief that the child had asked the question on all their minds and the pride of not wishing to be seen as beggars.

Ila held out her basket, uncovering the treasure.

A half dozen hands grabbed for their choice of pastries and biscuits.

"I'm afraid they are no longer as warm as I'd like," Ila bemoaned.  
The children did not care. Their small faces were smeared with custard and berry and cream filling.

Ila looked past the little ones to the older children, still standing empty handed. She was sure she heard a stomach growl with hunger. "Here." She held the basket out, but the eldest, or at least the tallest, stepped back with a frown. The others followed suit, though more than one looked longingly toward the offered gift.

"They don't want your charity, love." Jules mocked her softly, and Ila flushed at the hard truth in his words.

"It's not charity." She spoke loudly enough to be heard by the youths. "They work for me."

The children, minus their younger siblings who had run off with a second selection to share with their parents or friends, looked from Ila to one another and back again, unsure but willing to be given a way out of this predicament that left them hungry.

"Really?" Jules was laughing at her, but he feigned seriousness and allowed her to go on.

"Yes! In the first part, I cannot always count on you, obviously, and I must know when these shipments are brought in or my business suffers. It is even more important that when these shipments come I am able to have first choice of any delicate or rare specimen. And, as now I am happily satisfied with the lot, I must have them delivered in short order or all is lost. Their cooperation is valuable to me."

"So…you put the children to work, and pay them in cold bread. How convenient…for _you_." He was mocking her still, and there was a particular sharpness to the scorn.

She glared, not willing to be defeated. "The bread is a bonus for their loyalty. They will be well paid."

"Ah, _loyalty._ I see." Jules reached for a filled pastry, and Ila, more than a little irritated, slapped his hand viciously.

"Ow!" Jules jerked his hand back, and Ila flinched, afraid her spontaneous act of violence would be returned. Instead, for the briefest moment, Jules revealed true surprise, rubbing his reddened skin with the shocked and injured expression of a wounded child. But only for an instant.

There was a murmur amongst the older children, and a round of chuckles at Jules' expense, and then they were beside Ila, each taking their pick with thanks and satisfaction.

Jules brooded in silence until they were gone, and Ila began to regret her abrupt treatment of him and the laughter directed his way.

"Oh fine." She softened and held out the basket, but he crossed his arms over his chest and refused to acknowledge the attempt at peace. When Ila met his eyes they were hard as granite.

"You know, Ila, you're such a very forgiving woman. Here you are, feeding the Empire's children and planning a romantic dinner for two…" His eyes flashed with cruelty. "And your Gabranth is off wooing the Dalmascan Queen. Or do you think it's young Larsa she's going out of her way to entrap, love?"

"He's not my Gabranth. He's welcome to woo whomever he likes. Besides, as usual, you don't know what you're talking about." Ila spat angrily.

"Do _you, _know what you're talking about that is? I hear fascinating things about the Ranel family… Just down the street from you, isn't that right, love?"

Recognizing his attempt to goad her into revealing information, Ila held silent.

"Okay, well…" Jules was moment by moment recovering his jovial mask, "I had thought perhaps we could share. I heard a little something about trouble just this morning. Might have something to do with your boy. But-" He shrugged as if he could care less.

Ila wanted to ask to hear what he had to say… She instead brought her lips close to his ear, "Jules…You're nothing but a slimy snake. I wouldn't trust a word you said."

Bitterness shown in his eyes, and edged his words. "Well, that's all right, dearest. There are others who will be _very_ interested to hear what I have to say."

"Like who?" She was angry and irritable, made so with fear for the Judge Magister who had frequented her table. "Ghis is gone. Cid is gone."

"Mm…yes. But, my dear, there's always the Senate."

She scoffed. "The Senate? They wouldn't have anything to do with someone like you."

His eyes deadened. "I'm always good enough when someone has a need."

* * *

"We've been looking for you," Shyre told him as they rode upon the Castle grounds.

Bernal snorted. "Not lookin' all that hard, mind you."

Shyre's eyes narrowed in a frown, but he did not refute the statement.

Kasan watched him intensely. "How did you know I was gone? Who told you?"

Shyre looked directly ahead. Bernal smirked. "Whadaya think? We caught your buddy."

"Quiet, Bernal." Shyre's voice was sharp, and Bernal was offended.

"Pfft. You talkin' down to me, kid?"

Shyre, any trace of boyhood a decade past, clenched his teeth and held his tongue.

"Who told you?" Kasan considered carefully.

It was possible, he supposed, that evidence left by the destruction of his wares and the interrogation of other artisans might have revealed the circumstances of his untimely departure.  
And yet…Bernal had said it… _"We caught your buddy."  
_Dwen was free-and party to his abduction. Not only had Bernal's tone not implied any female presence, which he was certain a man like Bernal would have taken time to note, but if they'd _been_ looking for him with understanding of the events, as Shyre had all but said, then… _Gabranth _

"Gabranth."

"What?" Shyre tilted his head, relinquishing the reins of his mount to a stable hand.

"I wish to speak with Judge Magister Gabranth." Kasan was absolute and yet unreadable.

Shyre blinked and looked past him to Bernal.

Bernal smacked Shyre's arm. "Ha! I told you we cannot trust the Imperialists."  
Shyre looked on doubtfully.

So…Gabranth was here.  
Kasan stared Bernal down. And then he shrugged lightly and looked away. "Maybe your Queen won't mind…if after all of this her country falls." His lips and eyes were hard, though his voice remained calm. "But I have a duty to my own people. I _will _speak to Judge Magister Gabranth. Whether you choose to protect your people I leave to you."

He was tired and tense and sickened with conflicting emotions concerning Dwen. Beyond this, he was discomfited in this desert land, under the accusing eyes of those so recently named the enemy.  
If it was on his mind then surely it was also on theirs that by his hand might have fallen their brothers and friends…

"There are ways of making people talk, boy. You're in no position to make demands." Bernal put a large hand around Kasan's neck threateningly, and Kasan felt the pressure beginning to build.

"Bernal!!" Shyre's voice was as firm as Bernal's grip, and, after a defiant moment's delay, the fingers loosed.

Bernal laughed and winked, but there was a dangerous tone to his voice, "Don't push your luck, kid. I'm good at what I do."

Kasan smiled bitterly, his eyes unflinching. "I'm sure you are." Bernal's gaze turned dark.

Shyre interrupted the games. "You," he pointed to a young knight, "report these events to the Captain. You," he indicated another guard, "call for a healer. And you…" He turned with angered eyes to Bernal, "Bring Judge Magister Gabranth."

The younger knights were torn, their eyes drawing back toward Bernal.  
Bernal looked furious, and for a moment it appeared he would resist. And then he turned and smacked a young knight between his bare shoulders. "You heard him, kid. Fetch the Imperialist."

Shyre gave him a dead stare and Bernal's face stretched in a grin, a hearty chuckle escaping his throat.

* * *

…_Was Noah afraid?_  
Disjointed thoughts of his brother slipped through the wall of Basch's resolve, and plucked him from the set path into shadowed byways.

_No._ …_Not for himself._  
Basch found the answer at once as Noah's face came in detail to mind, as if standing just now before him.

The Judge Magister absentmindedly watched with a quiet smile as Larsa, a small form in a large bed, continued to sleep. Soon enough the young Emperor must rise to face the duties of the day. For now, the heavy tapestries remained closed over the large windows, allowing the child refuge from the early morning light.

It was only right that Larsa should rest. The boy had endured a long night, and might endure a longer day. He would need strength.

_Somehow Basch knew his brother would be almost grateful for death to come. The weariness behind Noah's fiercely stubborn façade was so strong Basch could feel it in his own chest. _

Making his way to the adjoining room, Basch once again pulled out the worn volume. Were the scattered thoughts within this journal the only ones Inar had recorded throughout his life? And whatever the answer, why had he secreted _these_ words away?

_Noah would not willingly leave Larsa, or the boy, Faolyn…  
_The reasoning and questioning would not still.

Basch felt only a little remorse for the intrusion as he turned the pages. History might well help to solve the mystery of the present.

_What did it matter, Noah's will? The decision would not be left to either of them.  
Ashelia alone would decide and they would live…or die…by her word. _

He tried to turn past the words he'd read once, twice, three times and four, to go on to what might be more relevant to the current situation. And yet he returned again to the same dog-eared page he'd discovered the night before. His eyes slid past useless jots to find what drew him.

"_How quickly she is failing. I did not realize. Or perhaps I did not wish to know- otherwise I should have visited more frequently. So pale and thin, and yet she cannot seem to eat. I notice also she did not rise today when I entered, nor again when I left. And even the half hour we talked seemed a strain. But even had I not seen it in her appearance, I'd have read it clearly in the boy's face. Dear heaven, is there naught I can do?"_

Again the poignant lines were interrupted by random notations and ciphers, but soon the broken thread was mended.

"_I have sent for a nurse to help tend to more delicate matters. Her pride keeps her silent, and of course the boy is ashamed to speak of such difficulties. I am a fool not to consider it from the start. Hope for her recovery made me blind. No longer. Reality is cold and cruel. I do not wonder she longs to escape."_

Basch felt a wave of shame as the words called him to think on his own mother's fate...  
Despite her brave words at their parting, despite his own determination to believe otherwise, had he not felt it then, even as he walked down the path lit by the open door behind, that he would not again see her face in this life?  
And yet he had gone. …To fight against the fate that mocked them, he had gone.

A steady knock brought Basch to alert and sent him at once toward the main doorway.

Larsa stirred. Less troubled by the rapping, made muted by thick walls and corridors within the chamber, than by the sound of his guardian's armor to which he was finely tuned, he sat upright.  
Smoothing his mussed, dark hair, the young Emperor yawned, stretched, and rubbed sleep from his eyes.  
Slipping his feet into luxurious slippers, he cinched his robe and made his way after Basch in time to witness the Dalmascan guard, shadowed by a pair of untrusting Archadian soldiers, give the Judge Magister the news.

"Your Honor, Kasan Ranel is found."


	33. Let it Be

The pounding of clawed feet upon the earth brought Jaiger around in a spray of sand. His spirited mount whirled nervously, unwilling to be held as Wulf with a small troop joined them.

"What is it?" Wulf's voice was as grim as death, his eyes hard and cold as the steel of the sword in his hand.

"I wish I knew."

"I'll take point."

"Go back to the Castle, Wulf. The others shall continue on with me."

"No! I should go with you." Wulf's voice was a low growl, and anger flashed in his eyes; a rebellious, heated flame.

Jaiger calmly met his gaze, and the quiet words were heard only between them.  
"You hold her trust-and mine." Jaiger placed a hand on his friend's forearm. "Do not fail her."

Anger turned to pain, both born of despair. Wulf brusquely redirected his mount, and in a moment only a cloud of dust and sand remained.

To the others Jaiger motioned that they fall in behind him. "Come."  
His impatient mount was released to hasten along the way.

* * *

"Come, Faolyn." Tarachande spoke gruffly as the boy lagged behind. The Archadian knight who escorted them to dine with Larsa in his quarters had slowed his pace more than once so as not to lose his charges. Faolyn's resistance to this meeting was clear, as was his guardian's frustration. "Faolyn! Come!!"

Faolyn crossed his arms over his chest, and his chin almost touched his chest as he folded in on himself in a physical manifestation of his feelings.

The quick pace of booted steps startled Faolyn, and a hand on his shoulder made him jump, wide eyed and skittish.

"Excuse me." The Dalmascan guard nodded to the party as he passed the boy and continued on.

Faolyn watched him go, noting the differences in armor and bearing between the Dalmascan and Archadian.

Tarachande turned to give him a further rebuke and saw the boy's watchful eyes taking it all in. The boy was learning more in this journey than perhaps ever he had from the lessons Tarachande had planned.

"Emperor Larsa, Sir Jolon Alasdair-"

"Tarachande" The old man muttered under his breath, but did not press the matter. Perhaps, after all, in so much as his relationship to Larsa was concerned, the soldier was correct."

"And, er-"

"Faolyn." Larsa supplied the name himself, meeting them with an outstretched hand.

Faolyn didn't respond, and Tarachande nudged him roughly.

Larsa accepted Faolyn's forced handshake as if it was a warmhearted greeting from his dearest friend.  
"I am very glad to meet you." Tarachande was surprised to see a note of shyness in the young Emperor's eyes.  
He was not surprised to know that Faolyn was cringing at the social pleasantries.  
Well, the boy needed to learn sometime. No time like the present.

Faolyn stomach was tightly cramped, and his shoulders were slightly hunched under the spotlight of Larsa's gaze. He felt Tarachande's stern eyes piercingly turned on him, and tried to remember any suitable reply from the old man's lessons on etiquette. …He had always thought that sort of thing ridiculous…

Larsa seemed to know that the other boy was floundering, and quickly guided the conversation. He offered his uncle his hand and then the both of them seats at the table supplied with food enough for a dozen but set for three.

Carefully the conversation remained light.

There were things that Larsa longed to discuss with his uncle, things to do with his family history and life in the Palace before his own birth.  
There were things he also wished to say to the pale boy who sat across from him… Things he wished he could explain…  
The young Emperor knew that for some things it was not the right setting, and for others it was not the right time. On both counts he remained silent.  
He would simply for now enjoy the company of the elderly gentleman who could be called family and the boy who might, to the eyes of observers, pass for friend.

* * *

Ashe stood upon her balcony, her eyes shadowed with concern. She watched as below men rode out on Chocobo mounts toward the smoke. …Yes, smoke it was…

She had not summoned the Council for her dealings with _him._ Some secrets were too precious; some wounds were too personal to share. And yet the instincts awakened in war told her that this new shadow harkened of a danger that mocked the futile arguments of the day and night past.

Her father's advisors had, like all else, scattered with the fall of the Kingdom. Of the few who had managed to survive silent and mysterious ends by the help of Ondore, one had succumbed at last to age and illness, while another elected to stay in Bhujerba as a diplomatic emissary at the war's end-his decision influenced by a war-time marriage to a lady of the Bhujerban court.  
Familiar faces from her childhood had all but vanished from these walls. Others had come to take their place. These others carried with them a new story. It was a brave story of survival and hard-won victory. But they did not share the stories and the recollections and the history of life in the Castle before…They could not smell the scents of her childhood, hear the echoing laughter of her father in the halls, or see the familiar ghosts her memory conjured from memory when her heart least expected...

The part of her that felt at the most inopportune moments still so young and so small, and so very alone, seemed to be all that was left behind.

Jaiger Quinn was a good man; a kind and astute man. The knights trusted his judgment. The people approved of his presence beside her. And she had no complaints, save one… He was not Basch.

When she was a young Princess, by childhood the sole surviving heir of her father's House, the shade of her father's most trusted Captains had stretched across the Castle like a wall of comfort. Though all else around them crumbled she had believed that nothing could shake these strong towers.

Vossler's image came to mind, and she pushed it away.

Children even more quickly in days as dark as these grow up. Heroes all the more swiftly turn to clay. And rulers must steadfastly remember their place.

…Her place…

She too had changed, and changed again, as needed.

The child had vanished, and the shadow of the Princess had shifted the night of Rasler's death and upon the demise of her King father had left her forever. Amalia had risen from grief and turned grief to rage.

Watching the whispers of flame upon the horizon, Ashe felt a surge of something that felt like restlessness or longing in her spirit. Unaware, her fists clenched.

…Amalia would have been among them.  
… Amalia would have been leading them into the fray.

An armored Chocobo tore across the grounds, and Ashe watched as the rider dismounted midstride, leaving the beast to the fretting handlers. He looked up at her, and she was caught for a moment in the pain they shared.

Wulf…his heart was true but broken, the pieces holding together by only the thread of duty that remained.  
His spirit had turned wild and reckless since…  
Only the bonds of loyalty he had formed kept him reigned...

"Your Majesty?" The interruption caused Ashelia to turn. The Castle guard respectfully bowed, fist tight upon the staff of the spear in his hand.

"Your Highness, Kasan Ranel awaits audience."

"He lives…" Relief flooded Ashe's being, relief two-fold. If he was innocent it was good he was safe. She would not wish ill upon the innocent of even the Empire, as she had proved to herself in the matter of the Sun Cryst.  
If innocent, she prayed the Archadian might shed light upon the events unfolding about them.

But if somehow he were a part of the scheme?  
Well then, they would take what he knew however they might have it.

And then?  
And then he would face Dalmascan justice…like so many Dalmascans who had fallen to the steel blade of Archadian law.

The Queen's shadow vanished from the balcony, and the guard fell in step behind.

* * *

Wulf rode at a hard gallop onto the Castle grounds, and dismounted before the ruffled Chocobo had slowed. The stable hands scurried to claim the creature as it tore across the gardens.

His heart was beating at a furious pace. Despite his loyalty to Jaiger he cursed his friend. Did Jaiger not understand how desperately he could use a battle right now? The distraction would be a blessing. The restraint of peace was killing him.

Welcome though he would war upon himself, at once the remembrance of Drystan, letter in hand, came to mind and Wulf repented his dark thoughts. The families of these warriors should not find grief for his sake.

He sensed her there and turned his eyes to the balcony where she was like to stand.

She was staring down at him, too distant for him to know the expression in her eyes or upon her face.

For only a moment he bowed his head. When he looked back the balcony was empty.  
She had gone, and only raging sorrow remained.

* * *

"They say that another Archadian was brought here. I wish to see my countryman." Kasan spoke quietly to the soldier guarding the door of the chamber.

"Wish as you will. It is not to be." The guard scoffed, taking a personal satisfaction in denying the request.

"But -" Kasan's continued attempt to sway the guard was cut off by the striking of a well-known beat against stone.

"Judge Magister Gabranth." The monotone announcement from an unimpressed Dalmascan guard ushered him in.

Basch halted, and the pulse of his armored step silenced.  
The helm was removed, and Kasan lifted his eyes to a visage familiar and strange.

Relief washed through Basch's chest, and yet he saw at once the strange mix of emotion that flittered across the Archadian's face. "You are unharmed?"

Kasan's lips tilted in irony as the Judge Magister took in his tattered, stained clothing and dirt crusted features.

There was no time for reply. The Dalmascan guard bowed and directed Kasan follow as a more narrowly paced but purposeful step echoed through the hall.

As the Queen's presence was proclaimed Basch watched Kasan Ranel's frame stiffened just slightly. His chin too rose, if only a touch, to match the quietly defiant glint in his dark eyes.

_What must it be,_ Basch considered, _for a true son of Archadia and honored veteran of the war to now stand in the presence of the ones he'd risked everything to fight against, being asked to show subservience…  
Vayne's cause had not been noble, nor had it been just, but the warrior…_

What Basch dictated in thought played out in emotion through Kasan Ranel's eyes. What started with defiance wavered and turned fleetingly to shame before settling somewhere between in quiet resignation. The Archadian stood in respectful silence, his eyes downcast. And yet he stood and so remained.

The guard and stepped toward Kasan, offended.

Basch took a step forward and met the Dalmascan guard's eyes with a fierce gaze. The guard's eyes held his for a long moment and then turned to his Queen without pressing the matter.

Basch felt a twinge, and his own eyes looked upon Ashe. Surely she understood… This man's defense was his responsibility as Judge Magister. …For Larsa's sake.

Remembering the dark blot upon the skyline, Ashe subdued that something within her breast that still, if only now and again, longed for the sons of Archadia to bow at her feet, and she with a sword in hand...

Basch looked back to Kasan Ranel and found the Archadian's dark eyes resting thoughtfully upon him. Meeting his, they turned away.

Yes, for Larsa's sake, but more. Basch would not condemn one man for the sins of another. Beyond this, he could not forget either the scars upon Kasan Ranel's shoulders or the mother lying in unconscious state…

_Haleine Ranel was dying perhaps, with her son here, unaware of her plight, oblivious to her need…helpless to aid her… _

_What if she should succumb to her wounds with her son delayed in a foreign land…? _

Basch looked at Kasan but saw himself there. He thought of Haleine and saw his own dear mother instead.

…_What was it Reddas had said…about the past binding a man…?_

Basch advanced his thoughts to the situation at hand, letting the chains loosen if they would not fall.

"We wait until Emperor Larsa is present." Basch met Ashe's eyes, and she knew he would not be swayed.

Ashe tossed her hands impatiently, "And where _is _Larsa?"

* * *

When weather had for minutes been a lively topic between the child Emperor and his aged great-uncle, with no mention of the events of the night past, Faolyn was both tormented and infuriated.  
_How could they sit here, smiling and chatting aimlessly, as if nothing was out of the ordinary?  
As if his friend and protector wasn't wounded and hadn't been wrongly taken prisoner? _

_Was not Larsa supposed to care about Noah?  
Maybe it was only the other way around.  
Maybe Emperors think it only right that others should suffer and die for them.  
Maybe it was only Noah who cared for Larsa._

Indignation fanned the flames as he remembered the terrible wounds and the weeks of pain that his protector had endured as they nursed him back to health. Potions and skill had been taxed under the burden of such destruction.

_But Noah did care for Larsa. He had said it too many times to be forgotten. Even unconscious his spirit had fought to get back to protect the young lord… _

Sadness rained upon the sparks until they flickered and died out one by one.  
The irrefutable evidence of Noah's devotion to Larsa Solidor tamed the burning anger and steered it from hate to hurt.

_Noah wouldn't want him to cause Larsa any distress…  
Maybe he would even be angry if Faolyn upset Larsa.  
Maybe, if Faolyn forced him to choose, he would choose Larsa's side in the argument.  
Maybe he would simply choose Larsa…and leave Faolyn behind… _

Faolyn couldn't touch his plate, although the bounty set before him was more succulent than any he'd ever had the privilege of tasting; even though his stomach had all morning ached from hunger and his senses now begged his mouth to partake.

Tarachande pretended that he didn't see Faolyn sitting there unmoving, but the withered lips tightened with disapproval. The old man's thoughts were sour.  
_The boy's behavior was unforgivable...  
Did the child not understand the honor of this meeting?  
To dine with the Emperor is a rare and precious gift indeed and not to be scorned!_  
_Perhaps,_ the old man considered, all the while continuing his lighthearted ramblings on Archadian springs and Dalmascan winters, _he_ _should have revealed his own background to the boy from the start.  
Perhaps he had been too lenient and should have enforced the master and servant model between them, thereby making the roles of society more strictly defined.  
Perhaps then the impertinent boy would not sit sulking as if he had the right to turn aside the Emperor's good graces.  
Well,_ he thought sternly, _as soon as this tiresome conundrum solved itself the boy would be taught… _

Larsa too saw Faolyn's silent and unhappy form in the vagueness of unfocused vision. There his assessment divided with his uncle's. _How deeply he loves him,_ Larsa thought to himself, and blinked away the dampness that came.  
_I'm glad._ _Thank you, Faolyn, _was his heart's automatic response, but as quickly followed, _I'm sorry…_

At a brisk knock Larsa held up a refined hand and the Archadian guard, who until now had stood as still and silent as if he had blended into the very wall itself, stepped outside. When he reentered it was with a Dalmascan guard standing respectfully distanced just outside.

"Sire, Judge Magister Gabranth wishes your presence at your convenience."

Larsa stood, and Tarachande reverently stood with him. Faolyn remained seated, lost in lonely thought, until Tarachande's hand tight upon his upper shoulder demanded he rise.

Faolyn realized that their time with lord Larsa had come to a close and was eager to be away. Too swiftly then he came to his feet, and Tarachande's eyes spoke his dissatisfaction. Larsa appeared not to notice any aberration.

"I regret that I must take my leave. Uncle Jolon," he turned to the old man, who this time did not refuse the name, "I hope you will no longer be a stranger to me. The Palace is open to you. Say that you will come."

Tarachande nodded solemnly, and clasped the boy's hand between his weathered palms. "It would be my great honor, lord nephew."

"And Faolyn. …I hope you will come also." Again the shyness returned, and his hand came more timidly.

Faolyn accepted the hand, smaller than his own, smoother of skin and adorned by a royal ring, not because of the insistent eyes of the elderly guardian next to him but for the sake of another whose opinion mattered more.

Larsa understood as absolutely as if Faolyn had spoken the words aloud… _For his sake, let us not be enemies._

* * *

The guard whom Ashe had instructed to notify the Imperial leader now returned to her side without the child Emperor.

Basch was unafraid for Larsa. The Imperial guards standing watch would not this time let the boy from their sight. He would be well protected as he made his way.

Kasan had been lost in tired contemplation, and now watched the return of the Dalmascan guard with a tired but inquisitive expression.

The Queen's escort had worn an ornate helm with a plume of feathers in the royal colors, and a cloak emblazoned with the Royal Crest swept the path behind him. Beyond this however, he was naked to the waist, save wisps of bronze adornment around neck, serviceable to hold the mantle, and bronze cuffs at the wrist. The leather trousers that clad his thighs ended above ankles shod in leather and bronze sandals. His skin had been tanned by much exposure to wind and sun, and was near the cast of the metal he wore.

Kasan rubbed his sore neck muscles and let his strained eyes roam the room. His blurred vision brushed across the other Dalmascan guards present, finding that in most cases it was the same. More skin was left exposed than was protected. How easily might an arrow pierce, a sword strike true, or a bullet find its mark. It was no wonder…

He scoffed lightly, and did not realize his contempt had been expressed aloud. The wandering thoughts halted under a sudden white hot focus of Dalmascan eyes.

"Do you have something on your mind, Imperialist?" The easily offended guard was no longer to be put off by the Judge Magister's stare.

"Wha-?" Kasan, wearied to the point of already having lost track of the roving thoughts that had led him to this precarious ledge, took an uncertain step back and into the unyielding bulk of a second guard.

"This man is no prisoner but a guest of the Queen. He will be treated with respect." Polite but cold were the words from the Judge Magister's lips, and the guard's chin jerked up a notch at the indignity of being rebuked by the Archadian officer.

"Yes. He will be," Ashe interjected firmly, and the guards took up their places dutifully, eyes carefully set to avoid the Imperialists.

Kasan looked up to witness red points appear upon the young Queen's cheeks, and in that instant he wondered, distractedly, if she was angry with her own guards for their aggression or with the Archadian Judge Magister for daring to reprove them in her presence. Both perhaps.

His thoughts drifted on.  
_…She was still even now so young… It must have been a devastating blow…..._  
In the next moment his eyes were upon something else, anything else, as if he had seen nothing.

Ashe looked upon him in time to see a play of regret come and go. Her warmed cheeks flamed. She had no need of this Imperialist's pity!

Larsa came just in time.

"Master Ranel!" The young voice rang out.

"Your Excellency." Kasan this time moved to bow without prompting.

"Please. There is no such need." Larsa hurried toward the man, hand stretched out. Kasan, pained and exhausted, gave a grateful smile.

"Are you injured?" Larsa was at the man's side with his customary concern.

Basch watched with pride and affection as the boy showed caring for not only the message to be delivered but for the messenger.

Ashe looked on as the lines of Basch's face softened, lips gently upturned and eyes rounded as they set upon the child.

"As I hear it, you reported to our men a matter of life or death." Wulf burst through the heavy doors and entered the room like a stalking beast. "Is that so, Archadian? Or are you simply a _liar_ and a _fool_ wishing for a tour of the Dalmascan Castle?" He paused only a moment, circling threateningly toward this latest Imperialist intruder, ignoring altogether the presence of the Emperor whom he had so insolently interrupted as if the young leader was unseen. The wicked blade was bare in his hand. "Speak now, or I'll be more than happy to show you the Dungeon."

Basch noted the pulsing tension behind the biting words. The warrior within who had for so long and through such desperate days fought sensed some reason behind the madness. However, with Larsa standing in the path of this man's reckless anger reason carried no weight.  
The smaller of the two blades in his possession slipped easily to hand and was in the next breath at Wulf's neck. "Put your sword away or your head will fall to your feet." Basch's voice, Gabranth's voice, was so low that only the four in the immediate circle could hear.

Wulf's eyes never wavered. The sword in his hand had, in the instant Gabranth's blade came to his own neck, went to Kasan's side. They were at an impasse.

Kasan looked down at the violent teeth with a strange smile. "Has it served you well?" His eyes turned to the knight.

Wulf blinked, suddenly uncertain.

"The blade. Has it served you well?"

Wulf's eyes hardened, and his hand tightened about the grip. The Archadian mocked him.

Basch listened and looked on, suspecting what was next to come.

"I confess I was in a foul mood when it was forged."

Wulf started, and a thin line of blood appeared upon his neck as the movement caused him to flinch upon the blade held steady in Basch's firm grasp.

"It was not my intention to let it pass from my hands… I have wondered in whose hand it found a home." Again a mix of emotions crossed Kasan's dirt stained face.

Wulf was unsure. Basch could see him considering if the story could be true.

"Check when you've the time," Kasan continued softly. "On the right side, near the hilt, and also upon the pommel… You'll find my mark."

Wulf moved the blade slowly, leaving himself at the Judge Magister's mercy, and viewed the pommel. Whether or not he was satisfied, when he spoke he spoke only to Kasan. His voice was husky. "We must know what you've learned. Even now…" He stopped abruptly.

Kasan felt a flash of fear. They were no longer speaking of the blade. His mind sped to Dwen.  
_What had she done? Was it too late?_

"Go." Ashe's voice, crisp and firm, dismissed the rest of her guards from the room.

The guards, save Wulf, abandoned the play.

Ashe approached Wulf even as Basch went to Larsa's side.

When the slim hand viciously struck out, once and then twice, and left its crimson mark across Wulf's face Kasan shuddered as if he felt the strokes himself. Consideration for the knight's shame turned the Archadian's eyes, and Kasan searched for some other spot where he might fix his vision for a time. He could not close his ears to the words that followed in a trembling rage from between the Queen's lips. "Is _this _how you honor him? Is _this _how you show your loyalty?"

There was silence for a long moment after.

Larsa was displeased, his young brow furrowed and his hands clenched at his sides.  
Basch was looking with an unreadable expression at the Queen.  
Wulf, thoroughly chastised and tamed, moved quietly toward the wall to stand silently in shadow. He was oblivious to the blood that spread from the etched line at his neck or that dripped from his lips to speckle the floor at his feet.

"I will tell you all I know, but the…the _other_ man that your soldiers say was brought to this place… I would like to know what he saw and…and to what conclusion-"

Basch closely watched Kasan. Had Kasan actually seen Noah? Did he realize the truth of two Gabranths? The avoidance of naming the countryman, or of requesting a name…did it mean anything?

"Tell us all you know." Ashe swept aside the suggestion, suddenly aloof and icy calm.

Basch felt frustration he did not reveal.

Kasan's tired and troubled mind was reeling. He cleared his throat. It felt scratchy and sore.  
"I was at the Faire."

"Alone?" Basch watched for Kasan's reaction.

"No… Dwen… My assistant was with me." He stared off into the distance. "After I spoke with you at the Palace… We were on our way then."

Basch kept his sight upon Haleine Ranel's son though he felt Larsa's eyes turn to him.

"The girl, was she taken prisoner also?" Larsa prompted, his voice holding other questions he did not ask.

Kasan lifted his eyes. "No. No…"

"Go on. Tell your story." Ashe was impatient but not without purpose. Basch understood.

"We were at the Faire, and… Someone must have mentioned it…" Kasan looked at them as if he'd just remembered some forgotten detail. "Did people talk of a display of light in the sky?"

"Yes." Wulf's unsolicited answer came. His voice rang hollow across the distance. "Showering sparks. Like fireworks…or bombs… We were patrolling the region and saw. Some we questioned after thought Her Royal Majesty had orchestrated this thing for the festival. Others thought…that it was the end…" His tone was withdrawn.

Kasan rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. "It was a diversion, I think…" He hesitated. "Some men came toward my exhibit during this time." So quietly he could barely be heard he added, "She had gone by then…"

"She had gone? Your assistant?" Basch caught the words, and felt the importance.

"Men. What kind of men? Artisans, villagers, thieves…" Ashe asked.

Larsa turned his eyes from his guardian to the Queen thoughtfully, deliberating on both questions with rapt attention.

Kasan seemed not to hear the Judge Magister's query, and Ashe's question Basch answered in his own mind.  
_Warriors. Rozarians, so Noah had said._

"Warriors. …I cannot be sure…I believe they were Rozarrian." Kasan stated cautiously.

_Noah had rightly judged. _Though unacknowledged, the feeling that followed was more of brotherly pride than relief.

"Speak freely." Larsa reassured the Archadian son, sensing that this man did not wish to unjustly accuse. "We do not look for excuse but for truth. We will summon wisdom and courage to protect this peace that you have given your part to bear."

Kasan watched the young Emperor with a wistful heart. If only he could believe he had a portion in this peace.  
Was it a kindness that the Emperor said these words? Or did the young Emperor need to speak them so that for his own heart he could make it somehow true?  
Kasan felt compassion for the boy's lot, and admiration for his determination._  
…for the sake of the angels._  
Perhaps they had returned…

"Continue," Larsa nodded encouragement to him, and Kasan did as his Emperor requested.

"I heard…someone…calling out a warning."

Ashe's voice was slightly agitated as she hurried him down the course. "So the countryman you spoke of warned you. Yes?"

Kasan turned his eyes from Basch to the Queen. "Yes. That is so."

Wulf, without asking permission of the Queen, vacated his position near the wall and vanished through the towering doors.

* * *

"Young man, when we return home you will find your circumstances most unhappily changed. I have been amenable to your peculiar sensibilities up until this time, too much so I now see, but no longer. You will learn to show respect."

Faolyn spoke softly, his eyes downcast in defeat. "I'm sorry. I-I tried."

The Archadian knight who had summoned them had gone on as the Emperor's protector and the pair was once more in the keeping of Dalmasca. The face of the Dalmascan guard who now walked behind them reflected his pity for the boy.

"Did you?" The old man sniffed as they trudged along, this time at the elder's pace. "Then you will learn to succeed. When we get back to our room I expect you-"

The Dalmascan knight interrupted as they arrived at the door to their assigned guest chamber. "My apologies, good sir, but I wonder if the boy might accompany me to the Chocobo you have left in our care? He is, to say the very least, spirited, and I am told he favors the boy? It might save a knight an eye, and that would be much appreciated." He looked aside to the boy with a wink. "We are somewhat fond of our eyes, and try to keep a matching set when we can."

The old man sighed heavily. "Fine, fine. But do not think I will forget our discussion, child, or that you will escape the lesson."

"Yes, sir." Faolyn spoke meekly, suddenly very aware of his plight as a castoff.

The old man went inside, muttering about aching joints and an early nap, and Faolyn stole a frightened glance at the soldier beside him. Only now did he realize, after his haste to escape a scolding from the old man, that he was left alone in the company of a Dalmascan warrior.

The Dalmascan smiled comfortingly down at him.  
"Hello, Faolyn, I'm Drystan. So, about this crazy Chocobo of yours…"

* * *

Outside the massive doorway Wulf walked past the guards. Lost in his own thoughts, he did not acknowledge or consider them.  
Murmurs followed his steps. He did not hear.

The guards standing along the hallway as he descended into the Dungeon he dismissed. Without question they left the shadowy corridors to find the sun.

* * *

"_Now watch Zargabaath. See how he holds his frame just so, Larsa? Try and emulate that same form." _

_Noah, though it had been years since any had called him aught but Gabranth, walked beneath the towering archways and through the rows of pillars that supported the balconies above and below, his armor sending an evenly paced echo across the wide expanse to be swallowed into the open air beyond. _

_He was surprised to see Zargabaath and Drace locked in a dancer's embrace.  
The helms of both Judge Magisters were set aside at the base of one pillar.  
Zargabaath's wiry hair was mussed and wisps of Drace's finer locks curled out around her forehead and neck.  
They did make a handsome couple, as Zecht had said... _

"_Yes, Judge Magister Drace. I wish to try again, please."_

"_And so you shall, young master. Come take your place, my lord." _

_Zargabaath bowed to his dance partner and to the young Solidor and backed away to watch. He turned his thoughtful eyes upon Gabranth briefly and then away. _

_Drace motioned to the small section of musicians that accompanied them, and the strings and flutes chimed out. _

_Larsa, only five and small, stretched to make the hold. As the boy attempted to lead Drace gave him quiet instruction, correcting his hold and indicating which direction or step was next in line. Larsa completed the task to a satisfactory review, and yet the boy was disappointed, knowing he needed to improve in his guardian's estimate. _

"_I would like to watch your example once more," the boy spoke earnestly. "Your Honors, if you would?"_

"_Of course." They would not refuse him even if they could, and Zargabaath and Drace prepared to begin._

_That's when Larsa noticed the new arrival. "Branth!" He smiled at the shadowed witness, and motioned him to join them. "Let us give Branth a turn!"_

"_Oh, no, lord Larsa, I don't-" Noah felt a spasm of alarm. _

"_Judge Magister Gabranth," Drace emphasized sternly, "likely has other duties to mind." Her arched eyebrow lifted even higher, and Noah shifted from one booted foot to the other, preparing a likely excuse.  
But Larsa, in childish innocence and enthusiasm, would not be swayed. _

"_I wish to see Judge Magister Gabranth dance with you. We will take turns! Having more examples will be…educational!" Being clever and well spoken as he was Larsa made certain to address the officer properly and had tossed in that last part entirely for Drace' benefit. But when the three saw he was so delighted with his suggestion, clapping his small hands in pleasure at once, despite Noah's personal discomfort, despite Zargabaath's dissatisfaction, despite Drace' annoyance, the matter had been settled. Gabranth would dance. _

_Gabranth set his helm beside the others, a melody began, Zargabaath bowed and stepped aside, and Drace stiffly offered her hand to Gabranth.  
"Do try to keep from tripping on your cloak or over my feet." She threw the insult under her breath without any knowledge of his dancing ability, and yet just hearing the words brought those worries to Noah's mind. _

_He ground his teeth, took her hand, and tried to recall what he had tried to forget… _

"_You have broken the hold, and your frame is hideous," She hissed under her breath. "Keep your back straight. Quit leaning toward me. Have you never danced before?"  
He refused to look into her face, and pulled her closer so that she could not look into his. _

"_Just feel the rhythm of your partner, and let the music guide your feet," his mother had encouraged as he and Basch lurched through the number.  
Basch had bruised his toes with his wayward feet… Noah had poked his brother in the eye by turning the wrong direction, or was it the right direction at the wrong time…  
Finally they had toppled to the floor. Their mother had laughed, after seeing that they were for the most part undamaged, until their tangled disgrace had turned to a fistfight. There her laughter had ended, but they had fought with passion worthy of their disgrace, and the rest of the long ago story was of her scolding and their sulking as rain hit the windowpane of the room of their confinement. _

_He brought Drace closer still, as if by clutching her he might surely manage to survive, and felt the pulse of her breathing and the warmth of her hand in his…this even through armor and gloves.  
Vaguely he considered that this was nothing like dancing with Basch._

_The music trailed off, Zargabaath cleared his throat, and Larsa cheered. _

"_That was...terrible." He could barely hear her voice. Her manner betrayed agitation. She tore her hand from his as if he had stolen it, and then shivered as if she had caught a sudden chill. _

_Noah retreated to the shadow of a pillar further away. Drace demanded the musicians play again, immediately, and ordered Zargabaath to join her. Though he could claim seniority over them both in the service of House Solidor, Zargabaath graciously complied. _

"_Show me how to dance like Judge Magister Gabranth!" Larsa called. "I wish to dance like Gabranth!"  
Noah's face burned. He had made a spectacle of himself. _

"_You will learn to dance, lord Larsa, as befitting one of your station and not as a commoner."  
The remark was sharper than was customary in addressing the young Solidor, but it was Noah who felt the sting. With it came some degree of anger in defense of his mother, herself an accomplished Archadian lady, and of his…no…his father's home…_

_Zargabaath, always the courtly gentleman, took Drace' hand, put one around her waist, and they made their way in perfect, meticulous time and frame about the floor. The dance was flawless, though Drace' movements lacked her normal fluidity.  
Larsa settled, somewhat deflated, resigned to learning the proper, princely ways. _

"_The boy's right." A deep, rumbling voice at his shoulder startled Noah. _

_He had not heard Zecht enter. …How could he have not heard Zecht enter?! _

_The dark eyes were sparkling with mischief as he continued. "We all want to dance like Gabranth." Suppressed laughter shook Zecht's armored chest, and Noah let a growl rise in his throat. _

_Noah's hand tightened to a fist, fighting his own discomfiture. In other days, or perhaps only in other settings, Zecht would have been on the floor with a bloodied lip. _

"_I wager Zargabaath wishes he could dance like Gabranth…" Zecht continued to goad, his laughing eyes challenging. Clearly he would enjoy the bout._

_Noah bit the inside of his lip and tasted blood, but his outer visage revealed none of his embarrassment, save perhaps for a flushed cheek, or any of his dark thoughts of violence against his fellow Judge Magister but for the flex of his jaw. _

"_Come now, Gabranth. Let us take our debate elsewhere and leave Drace to Zargabaath and the child. One woman against so many men…it does not seem fair." Zecht muted his teasing, and turned to camaraderie. _

"_Let her hear you speak so and there will be one less man to worry her," Noah warned with a cut of his eyes, and Zecht managed to quietly roar with laughter. _

"_Come." A tilt of his head indicated Noah should follow. _

"_My-"_

_The retrieved helm was transferred from Zecht's hands to his own, and his fellow Judge Magister shook his head. "Come, Gabranth. Let us get you to the surface while there is time." He draped an arm over Gabranth's armored shoulders, a gesture that was not uncomfortable coming from his gregarious colleague, and led him away._

Noah's lips crooked softly. These softer memories, few though they might be, were welcome relief after the torturous hours past. He forced the story to freeze there, unwilling to revisit the cruel end.

Unaware, he hummed a tune that began as a stately Archadian refrain and now and then slipped back to an earthy Landisian melody from his childhood.

* * *

"Go on." Larsa urged Kasan on quietly, urgency underlining his words. Basch stepped closer to the young leader.

"The warning came in the moment before they attacked. Three, if I rightly recall. I fought." He looked down at his hands, and laughed quietly at himself. "And lost. Later I awoke in darkness. In a cave. And then…some time after…I escaped and came here."

Kasan was withholding information. Basch could see the gaps in the story as if they were pages left unfilled within Inar Ranel's journal.

"What was your _countryman_ doing as you fought for your life and freedom?" Disdain laced the query from the lady's tongue.

"Why do you not ask him?" Kasan returned frankly, his tone somewhat sharp, perhaps the effect of fatigue and the strain. "I cannot answer for him."

"He will answer; have no fear." Ashe's assurance brought a chill to the air.

* * *

When Wulf rattled the lock the soulful humming ceased, but the captive sat staring with brooding eyes across the small expanse as if he could see something past the wall. Wulf felt as if he could see it too…

When the prisoner looked up his blue eyes with their shadow of gray simply went to the guard, waiting.

Wulf stood before him, his chest rising and falling with the pounding in his veins.  
"Kingslayer." Wulf addressed the prisoner formally, as if the accusation were a title.

Noah showed no emotion. "Aye."

"But not the good Captain, Basch fon Ronsenburg." There was no question there.

Noah's brow lowered and his lips tightened just a touch. Still he remained silent. It was easy enough to bait by pretense of knowledge and by that pretense gain the knowledge you seek.

"Basch fon Ronsenburg stands in the court of the Queen, at the side of the Emperor, wearing Imperial Judge Magisters weeds." Wulf sneered.

Noah's jaw tensed.

"Nevermind. Keep your silence. I'd like to hear you say, but…it doesn't really matter. I know the truth. The why of it means nothing beyond curiosity." And the guard's intensity increased. "And in truth I don't want to know. I don't need your confession, excuse, or explanation."

Was it only the garish light reflecting, or did Noah see dampness in the disheveled Nabradian's eyes?

Noah recalled the first time he was assigned to such a task. He'd been violently ill before and after. Could barely remember carrying out his duty. But still he could see the face of the condemned, and never could he think of it without that familiar pain twisting in his chest. He thought he would never again face such a raging resistance in his spirit…but he had met with worse.

"So you are chosen to the task." Noah pulled his body from the wall, stood to face the guard without challenge, and offered absolution. "Let it not trouble you. There is no dishonor. You serve your Queen and your people."  
It didn't matter now. Why make the knight suffer for his duty?  
Noah tried not to think of Larsa or of Faolyn or of Basch…And then he thought only of them, holding their faces close.

"My Queen…my people…" Wulf mused quietly, "I am here because Ashelia was wed to the one who would have ruled my land and my people if Nabradia had been given grace to stand…" He swallowed, shook his head, and took a raspy breath. "Maybe someday I will ask why you chose as _you_ did." His voice was thick. "Or perhaps it is nothing to you. Perhaps to you and your kin one kingdom is as the next."

Noah's eyes, which had been shadowed with the pain he sensed in the guard's unsteady words, lightened with irony as Wulf spoke, and then darkened to gathering wrath. "You should take up your blade and still your tongue, before I relieve you of both." He took a tense step across the small cell.

Wulf feigned indifference, but, thinking outside the influence of his own anger, Noah sensed Wulf was torn between a desire to swiftly act upon his mission and another need to appease his conscience with some certainty.

"You asked me once where I got this sword. You know who made it?" Wulf unsheathed the sword and held the blade with the care due a dangerous creature.

"Within the borders of the Empire any would be familiar with the mark of House Ranel. Those accustomed to weapons of quality would recognize the skill of the son, Kasan. Even here within these walls his name should be familiar as the artisan reported taken from the Faire." Noah spoke evenly, reining in the frustration he felt over the Archadian son's plight. Just one more thing that would be left to Basch…

Wulf nodded, "Yeah, that I know." He sheathed the sword. "By the way…he's here."

Noah tilted his head sharply. "What?" He stepped forward, movements tense. "Here?" The next question was spoken with more urgency. "Alive?"

"Yes, of course alive." Wulf scoffed sharply. "He is with the Queen and the others giving his account now."  
The knight paused and licked his lips, blood lifting as his tongue came away. "She won't ask. Right or wrong, she can't…"

Noah tried to piece together a path in the words he couldn't follow.

"The fault is yours, and probably as much mine… " Wulf winced when he said it, his eyebrows pulling together and releasing.

This time the pain was easily heard and understood.

Wulf looked aside, gathered himself, and plunged from the precipice he'd climbed. "I've not come to end your life. If she'd intended your death you'd have died the first night. I know it, though it's another thing she'll not say."

Noah was startled, and physically it showed upon his face and in his stance.

"Then why have you come?" Noah wary eye assessed the guard's demeanor.

Wulf's could not hold Noah's eye as the prisoner studied him.  
Noah took in the guard's reddened cheek, and the chin stained with blood from torn lips.  
He saw the line of dark across his neck. Felt the tension and anxiety in his spirit.

"Just tell me one thing... Larsa…is he as sincere as he seems, or is this an Imperial trick?"

"Dalmasca's throne has a new enemy and it is not House Solidor."

"So says the Kingslayer. And with Dalmasca's once-beloved Captain standing at the Emperor's side…" The proclamation was stark.

"Judge me as you deem right, but your lady Ashe knows the truth of both Captain and Emperor, if she will admit. Until such time that Larsa no longer counts your Queen an ally, Dalmasca has nothing to fear from me."

Wulf's hazel eyes lightened, the murky green and brown revealing flecks of gold as they focused. "Until such time…" His bloody lips tilted darkly as he repeated the ominous words. "And your Emperor from my hand the same."

"It is our shame and our pride…and they are our hope." Noah offered somberly, watching the knight dancing precariously upon a wire. He'd been there…too many times, and wore the scars from falling upon the razor's edge below.

Wulf's eyes were suddenly deathly serious, and the words came roughly, as if torn from his chest. "So we understand each other… It is your sentence and mine that we must protect them."

* * *

"Here, take these." Drystan held out a handful of sugar cubes, and a pale hand snatched them away. "It's okay. Don't be afraid. I'm sorry if we scared you before… No one is going to hurt you."

"Don't bother. He's a wild one," a handler called as he walked past the garden with a sand-crusted and uncooperative beast. "Even more than this one, if you believe it!"

Drystan smiled wryly. He'd actually been talking to the boy…  
He took a look at the kid from the corner of his eye, and saw he was caught between the instinct to run and his curiosity. Hopefully curiosity won out…

The groom tugged on the reins and the Chocobo struck out, causing the handler to fall and roll for cover, letting go of the reins.

"It's okay, boy," a young voice whispered.

Drystan laughed softly, and the groom frowned, affronted, as Faolyn stood smoothing the Chocobo's feathers.

The groom siezed the reins and pulled the beast toward the stable. "Come on!"

"Don't pull on him so hard. He doesn't like it," Faolyn challenged, and Drystan grinned widely at the groom who snarled.

"How do you know he doesn't like it, squirt?" The handler demanded.

"Would you like it?" Faolyn asked sincerely, and Drystan laughed out loud as the irritated groom stormed on. Drystan threw a warning behind him. "Take it easy there. Wulf won't like it if he finds out you've been rough with him."

"Wulf ought not ride him like his tail feathers are on fire. Gets him all riled up and skittish. Makes my job a pain."

"Well, you feel free to take that up with Wulf any time you like," Drystan suggested mildly.

No further reply was sent, and Drystan threw Faolyn a wide grin.

"You can go on inside the yard if you want." Drystan motioned toward the grounds where the white Chocobo grazed.

Faolyn gave in to his desire to see the creature and nodded. Drystan unlocked the gate, and opened it for the boy to pass. Faolyn waited for the guard to follow, and looked confused when Drystan stayed on the other side.

"He, uh, scares me a little bit." Drystan admitted, running his hands through the bright blonde waves.

"It's okay. He'll be good while we're together. …Unless he thinks you are going to hurt me." Faolyn grew sober and looked the knight over cautiously.

"Hey, it's okay." Drystan held his hands up in a loose, nonthreatening way. "Really." Drystan promised. He followed the boy inside, staying near the fence as the young one wandered out to meet the large beast.

The Chocobo was running a path he'd etched into the ground, ruffling his white feathers, and shaking his neck. Drystan wondered for a moment if the boy was truly safe with the beast. But then the creature trotted out to meet the boy, nuzzling him affectionately, and Drystan's fears were relieved.

Faolyn seemed to feel him watching, and turned to motion shyly that the knight come join them.

Drystan shook his head and held up his hands, laughing at his own cowardice. And then the guard's laughing stopped. The boy was walking toward him…and the creature was following!  
He resisted the desire to run for the gate, sighed, and went out to meet them halfway.

"He won't hurt you." Faolyn promised. "Pet him."

The look in the beast's eye was not at all as comforting as the words of the boy, but he put out a hand and gingerly touched the feathers. "Huh. A different texture than those we ride… Softer, aren't they? Silkier, I think."

Faolyn nodded with pride, becoming more comfortable with the young, easy mannered guard.

"You'd best keep close watch on this one, little friend. To some he would be a great bounty. How'd you get him?"

Faolyn was quiet and suddenly wary, unwilling to speak of Noah to the knight. Drystan realized he'd made a mistake and moved on.

"I have a younger sister and brother back home. I wonder if they have a Chocobo…" His face twisted in thought. Then he laughed, "Not like this one, I'm sure."

"You don't know?" Faolyn asked him, resting his head upon the Chocobo's shoulder.

"It's, uh, been awhile… But they write. Or my sister writes anyway…she's the older of the two… And she'd have said, I'm sure. Kind of chatty, that one, at least on paper." He winked.

Faolyn smiled politely, but the smile soon faded. The Chocobo was jittery, dancing in place, and then walking in quick circles around the boy and young man.

"What's wrong with him?" Drystan felt the creature's fear.

Faolyn was silent and swallowed. He seemed suddenly dizzy. "I want to go in." He shivered, and looked up to Drystan with pleading eyes that seemed to wide and too bright. "Please, take me back."

"Okay, okay." Drystan smiled, trying to calm the boy. "It's okay. Come on."

He put a hand on Faolyn's arm, but the boy tensed and moved away. Drystan rubbed his fingers, feeling a tingling there. Maybe there was a lightning storm coming. Maybe that was what the Chocobo felt…

The Chocobo cried and took off running around the large area.

The wind was calm, but Drystan felt strangely as if he could feel another current ripping and pulling at them.

They exited the grounds, and Faolyn did not wait as Drystan locked the gate. The knight had to jog to retake his place at the boy's side. The kid was faster than expected. "This way. Come on. It's shorter." Suddenly it seemed very important to Drystan that this boy be sheltered within the walls.

* * *

"What do you know of Meret Denali?" Basch asked, his thoughts on Haleine Ranel. He watched Kasan's face.

Something changed in Kasan's eyes, and for a moment his face took on a far-off expression. Perhaps even there was to be found a trace of fear.

_The fighting. The anger-his own and others. The strange voices. The questions. The pain. The intuitive desperation and fear tamed only by duty and lonely resignation…  
_…Kasan remembered in a brutal flash why he'd come.

"Listen to me! Meret Denali is only one part. He gets his power from storehouses of Gil and and his family's good name. There are others. I think…I think there may be _many_ others… How many I don't know. From every country, I think. Some will be like him, but some… some are stronger than Meret Denali and dedicated to the cause."

_Noah had warned of the same._

"Meret Denali is dead." Ashe threw the fact at Kasan's feet, and Kasan's expression changed remarkably.

"Really…" He straightened, eyes widened in shock. Basch saw something else creep in then… Was it pleasure? "Dead." The word was breathed softly as Kasan Ranel searched the face of the proud, young Queen, looking to solidify the truth. And then his eyes narrowed to a quizzical air. "How?"

"By the sword of your countryman." Ashe answered flatly, turning away.

Kasan was silent for a moment, his eyebrows raised, and then he smiled and allowed a small chuckle.

Ashe was not amused, and Kasan ran his hands over his eyes. The chamber was still.  
"Your Highness, I have never wished death upon my enemies. Even in the darkest days of war when all that was known was death and dying. But Meret Denali…" Kasan's countenance darkened, "…was not a good man. If he is truly gone as you say there is less that we must fight tomorrow."

Ashe's face was pale. She seemed to waver, and there were none of her own to strengthen her. Basch took a step toward the young Queen. She frowned sternly, recovered, and turned away. "Dimas Apolinar. What do you know of him?"

"I-I don't think I know Dimas Apolinar…" Kasan was uncertain.

Basch turned his eyes to Kasan, and Kasan continued. "What I can tell you is this. This rebellion…" He rubbed his arms again. "It's been here for a long while, I now see…disguised. I thought…" His voice became a mere whisper, "it was the Resistance…"

"The Resistance, as you so flippantly say, did not seek to steal any other's power but to take back only what was ours! To reclaim what had been stolen!" Ashe's face lost its pallor, flushed with righteous indignation.

Kasan licked his dried lips, and looked for less offensive words to say. What was left of energy and clarity were failing him…

"Queen Ashelia, I insist you allow this man to tell his story in his own way." Larsa's fists were upon his hips, and his chin was lifted in stubborn determination.  
The two rulers glared across the short span between them.

Basch observed Kasan Ranel's weariness. This man was in dire need of rest and recovery. They could not keep him much longer, and yet for the sake of the security of their people he must go on.  
Basch nodded that Kasan should continue, and watched him search for the strength. When this was done, he would himself make certain the Archadian was well cared for.

"They look to overthrow the power both in Dalmasca and Archadia. To set up a unified leader over all." The dull, blunt statement brought each leader's focus to Kasan's face, searching to see if his words were sincere.

"It will not happen." Ashe was trembling with defiance. The knuckles of her fists were white. "We have fought too long. They will not have what we have paid to reclaim in blood." Ashe's lips were again as gray as her name, but her determination was glowing like an ember ready to burst into flame.

Larsa was reserved, pondering. "No, it will not happen. Our people cannot now suffer another war… I wonder…who controls the strings? Who moves the pieces? Who means to take up this power?"

These were the questions on each tongue, and Basch was proud to hear the workings of Larsa's quick mind, but Kasan shook his head without words.

Dimas Apolinar had to Basch's eyes revealed himself as the creature Noah had described. And the Rozarrian General held the power of the Rozarrian militia in his fist. He did not, however, seem the kind to try to garner the favor of those such as Meret Denali, less the kind to take orders of such a man.  
Beyond this, it seemed to Basch that Dimas would prefer to knock down the door with sword in hand than to work in stealth and deceit.

The brutality of both was established. Meret Denali's good name and wealth had given him power of influence and financial means to accomplish devious tasks. And yet Meret Denali, it seemed more and more likely, had been thought dead by his family and associates since his incarceration. Otherwise surely an attempt would have been made to recover him…or to end his life.  
And Meret Denali had not proved the master of the shadows, having announced himself so abruptly with the attack at the Ranel Estate, and again with the scene at the Faire resulting in his death.

And yet Meret and Dimas were both at the festival, and while Noah was fighting one others thought to be Rozarrian had attacked and taken Kasan.

Taken…

Taken but not killed. Why?

Why…?

Basch's thoughts twisted and turned… "Where did they hold you?"

"I…I'm not sure… I will map the place as best as I can, but they have likely moved by now… It wasn't a permanent camp, I think… They were waiting… For orders, I think, or for something to happen that would put their plan in motion. I don't know for certain… I would have tried to gather more information, but…"  
_But she could have killed me at any time, and maybe soon she wouldn't have made the choice to let me go… _

"How do we know this is true? How do we know that you are not one of them." Ashe's suspicions gained upper hand.

Did Ashe too question why Kasan had survived, and how he had escaped to fly here, Basch wondered. He did not have time to consider for long.

* * *

"-left wounded and some severely. Possible deaths."

Ashe started violently at Jaiger's report. "Who is responsible?"

Jaiger shot a look at the Archadian party, a strange hesitance in his eyes.

"Jaiger! I demand to hear!"

His eyes turned to his Queen. "_They say_," Basch noted the careful phrasing, "the charge came from the Archadian military."

"They are wrong!" Larsa spoke definitely. His fists were on his sides. "Archadia will not be made the villain in this farce!"  
He turned, and addressed the Dalmascan Queen. "Think you that I would come here speaking of friendship if I had given such an order?!"

"He speaks the truth, lady Ashe, if you do not fear to hear it." Noah's voice joined them before their eyes turned to see his approach.

Basch felt a jolt of shock, and by instinct he stepped into the path. His eyes held warning and caution.  
Jaiger too came forward, shielding his Queen with weapon readied in his hand. "Halt or die!"

Noah obeyed the command at once, standing without aggression halfway between the door and the group.

"I am not afraid!" Ashe could not help but refute the Slayer's accusation, to her ears much sharper and offensive than his tone. The part of her that cared for the dignity of her position screamed that she need not lower herself to give the undeserved reply. Another wondered if what he said, the part about her fear, could be true…  
In the next moment she realized there was a more pressing question. "How did you come to be here?"

Wulf stepped from the shadows of the wall. He did not bother speaking. She knew.  
No one had stopped him as he escorted the Slayer here. Why would they? Their Queen trusted him…

Jaiger groaned in frustration as he looked to his friend. "Wulf…What have you done?" There was a touch of hurt on his face, and Wulf refused to meet his eyes.

Ashe continued, as if somehow justified by this new deceit. "It is not the Archadian way? To smile and speak peace while your hand draws the knife?"  
Her eyes turned to Noah, and her voice lowered angrily. "Or is my father forgotten?"

"_No one_ has forgotten, my lady." Basch spoke quietly, his eyes were somber beneath a lowered brow, and when he turned his eyes on his brother Noah felt a greater distance than physical space separating them and a tighter bond than any chain.

Larsa turned to Ashe, his face paled with indignation. "I am _Larsa_ Solidor, and not Gramis, and not Vayne! I have been your ally, Ashelia. Have _you_ forgotten _this_?"

Basch approached intently. "If you believe Emperor Larsa instigated such an occurrence, or myself, then you must also believe I would willingly bring him into an enemy camp to be made prisoner. It is a guardian's task," He looked directly into Ashe's grim eyes. "To protect those entrusted to his care, not to make them a sacrifice."

Ashe's eyes softened a shade.

"This is what our enemies want." Kasan reflected aloud, and the eyes of all turned on his battered figure.

"Yes…" Noah's eyes were on the Archadian, but his words were easily heard even from his place apart. "Fight with your ally and the true enemy will be the victor."

"You have no say in this, _Kingslayer!_" Ashe heard. She heard every word he spoke, and some he did not. Her voice sharply rang, not yet ready to give up the fight.

"Ashe, we must not be pulled apart. We must stand together. It is the only way." Basch insisted more gently than his brother.

Larsa looked from his current guardian to the former and turned his attention to his fingertips.  
…Did they even see it?  
Basch treated with the Lady of Dalmasca for solidarity while Noah provoked her to conflict…  
Both toward the same purpose…

Kasan's eyes drifted from the Queen toward Noah but did not look to his face.

Wulf made the journey from the doorway to Ashe's side. She let him come, watching him with eyes of indignation and wrath.

The steps seemed so many more now than they had before… He thought she might draw her own sword and dispense of him herself, or that she would call for Jaiger to fulfill the task…

Jaiger too waited for the order he feared would come…

"Ashe…" Wulf whispered her name as a plea.

"Queen Ashelia, " She insisted, her voice cold.

"Please… Did you not hear Jaiger? An attack on the border!"

"The Archadians-"

"No!" Wulf interrupted her without thinking, and then winced, expecting a blow that did not come. "You heard this man." He held out an arm to indicate Kasan without glancing his way. And then he stepped back to look in her eyes, and it was no longer Kasan he spoke of. "Kill him now, or let us use him, Ashe. Either way, let it be."

"He will betray us…"

"But he will not betray Larsa any more than I would betray you."

The accusation in her eyes stung worse than had her hand across his face.

But then Ashe turned her eyes to Larsa who met her gaze and held her eyes. Between them they knew what the outcome would be.

"…than Jaiger then…" Wulf's voice was hushed, not noticing that Ashe's attention was elsewhere. Jaiger looked away, pained.

"My life is in your hands, Ashelia, whatever worth it has left." He dropped his eyes. "And if I am wrong, I vow…by the blood of my people..." His voice was a gasp, and then his words strengthened. He pulled his wicked blade, leveling it toward Noah's chest as he stared grimly at the Kingslayer across the span. "I will kill him myself."

The cry that echoed from the doorway was followed by Drystan's cry of horror and a strong gust.  
And then Wulf's sword clattered to the floor as his arm went limp and his hand opened in shock, and the air filled with featherlike shards of light.


	34. The Vanishing Light and Shadow

Jaiger and his men had raced into the arena of conflict as Magan and those under her command were working with the remaining Archadian soldiers to bandage wounds, calm fears, and seek out the responsible.  
The strange flames were then already extinguished, though an eerie fog had remained in the aftermath, and each of the soldiers, regardless of banner, wore the same dust, soot, sweat, and some of them blood.

Jaiger had surveyed the damage with a throbbing heart. _Not again...not so soon._

And Magan when looked up from where she knelt near the now broken fountain, an Archadian warrior on his haunches beside her, to see Captain Jaiger Quinn, she had pushed her matted auburn hair from her forehead with the back of her hand and rose.  
The look upon her face had matched the foreboding in his spirit.

* * *

Judge Oran had been watching as the small, sleek Archadian airship had landed near the border. He and his men had kept close watch, ready to provide aid, but they were unprepared when the flash of light pierced the sky. In the next instant the concussion had rocked the airship.

They had maintained control, but all hands felt the report.

At first believing they were fired upon, Oran's Lieutenant had been a heartbeat from returning fire upon an enemy unseen, but Oran had stayed the call. It was not they who were in distress, he instinctively knew, and they would not endanger their kindred, be they soldier or citizen, by an ill-considered assault.

There had been urgent, swift questioning as to what had been espied near the flash, and few enough answers. All had seemed quiet with little out of the ordinary.

Nothing to explain why now they were separated from their colleagues below by a thick, hazy sea.

* * *

"…dead?"

"…that armor off him. …crushed…like a vise… hurry with that next potion…"

Lonnan felt like he was dreaming. A jolt through his torso flooded his senses with pain. …Could dreaming hurt this much?

"…to keep this ship level, or I'll have…!"

Why was the air so thick and hard to breathe? Why were his lungs burning when his body was so cold? …Drowning… Was he drowning?  
Panic gripped him..

"… of all that is good…must keep him restrained!"

He was running, but his feet wouldn't move. He was swimming, but his arms refused to pull him to the surface. He was fighting, but they were winning. …They were faster, stronger… Why could they move when he could not?  
_...Please…… have to get home. …Aneera… help me…love …_

"…worry, Commander. …be home soon."

* * *

The armored figure who stepped inside a rundown warehouse, long past the need to be condemned, looked distastefully at the rodents that scurried about his feet. His lips turned to show his increased disgust as a pack of scraggly children raced after. One of the eldest, perhaps barely a teenager, threw a roughly honed shard like a spear, and the younger children darted around and over boxes and empty crates to investigate. When a youngster, probably less in years than the fingers of one hand, appeared holding a large rat by the tale and cheering about the dinner they'd now eat, the soldier shuddered in revulsion.

The leader of the group held out his hand to retrieve his knife from the child, and the warrior slapped the hand away, snatching the tool.

The blade of stone had clearly been sharpened without the aid of proper tools. It was uneven and pitted, and yet the edge was sharp enough and the point would suffice for the kind of duty it had just seen. A mostly smooth stick was made to be the grip, and held to the stone by fraying binding twine seated in several recessed chips of the stone.  
The boy had toiled away many hours in the making of this instrument.

"Ha. What a pitiful thing." The weapon broke in the armored hand as if it was a toy, and the children gasped and cried out as one. A quiver shook the boy whose knife it had been as if it was he that had been broken instead. The warrior drew his own weapon, long and bright and straight. "Here boy, test the edge of a true blade."

The boy fearfully looked to a girl and boy about his own age. The panic in their eyes answered his own.

"I gave you an order!" The soldier grasped the boy's arm at the wrist and forced his open palm toward the gleaming edge.

"What did I tell you brats about hanging around this place? Roof's likely to fall in on your filthy heads! Would serve you right." Jules snatched the boy from the soldier's grasp and roughly threw him backward, toward the door. The boy fell hard, but was quickly to his feet. "Go on!" Jules' voice was harsh. "Get out of here! If I have to come after you-" They were gone. Not even their shadows lingered.

The warrior's face was smoldering with anger at Jules for his interruption, but Jules gave a short, raucous laugh. "Brats and rats; rats and brats. The streets are full of them, always underfoot. After dark one must keep his ears tucked in and check his boots and gloves if he dares wander into Old Archades. I've heard tell-"

"Enough, pauper-son!" The blade flashed threateningly, and Jules held his hands before him, eyes wide and guileless. The blade was sheathed, and the soldier nearly spat. "What do you have for me? For your sake, it had best be worth the trip to this forsaken place."

Jules propped himself up one of the sturdier crates in a place where the shadows concealed the slivers of disdain he allowed to slip through his mask. "Meret Denali, noble Dalmascan, is dead."

"Good riddance." The eyes were unfeeling, uncaring, and bored.

"Three bodies were taken from House Ranel . Two men, one woman. A prisoner also, his fate unknown. The men were in the employ of one Meret Denali; the woman, good lady Madame Ranel herself."

"Most of this I could tell you. And why should it interest me?"

"Meret Denali was until late in the custody of the Empire… His family cries foul, he is released by authority of the Magistrate, and now he is dead."

"So…Denali's death was orchestrated to rid the Empire of an enemy released under the guise of diplomacy." The soldier sniffed appreciatively. "Clever." He sobered and glared. "And unhelpful."

"But consider that soon after the border is shut down, Judge Magister Gabranth and the Emperor fly off to _discuss_ our relations with Dalmasca, and now, only an hour past, there is witnessed an explosion on the border. …There are rumors of _Imperial_ casualties. I wonder what the Senate will now say to the Emperor's claim of peace..."

* * *

Zargabaath drew a line from his steel hairline down the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, and muttered a few unintelligible lines.

The Emperor had not yet returned. The Senate was abuzz, and swarming like flies. The giddiness in their manner since Larsa's departure irked him. How could those charged with serving the people so delight in the ill that befell their country?  
But then had it not always been thus?  
Too often it seemed…and that was what worried him most… For he had himself seen the end result, and it was a bloody, pitiless thing.

"Judge Magister!" A knight hurried in. "There has been some trouble on the border."

"No…" Zargabaath breathed the word beneath his breath. The knight did not hear.

"An explosion of some kind. There are reports of numerous injuries and-"

Zargabaath released a guttural echo of disapproval. "Pryderi was given order-"

"Sir Pryderi, I beg your pardon, Your Honor, is one of the casualties. He is taken just now to the infirmary. I cannot tell you if he is yet alive…"

Dax Gracien had witnessed the knight's rushed movement through the Palace toward the Judge Magister's office, and had silently moved to stand behind the knight in order to hear the report.  
At the news of his colleague's injuries he turned and hastened toward the infirmary.

Zargabaath also made his way at a reserved but urgent clip, all the while continuing his inquiry of the soldier in terse, methodical time.  
Pryderi, if he was living, must be questioned as to the nature of this beast. The Emperor would be put yet again at disadvantage if the Senate were to hear of this thing.  
And they would hear. Zargabaath silently scoffed. Oh yes…they would hear.

* * *

"Judge Magister Bergan would be pleased…" This thought more than any other drove Judge Velten Muldyr as he took the information he'd gleaned to his contact in the Senate.

It was not enough that that his Master, who had died so valiantly in service to the Empire, had not been memorialized in a manner worthy of his noble person. To add to this insult, he, Judge under Bergan's command, had not been elevated to the position of Judge Magister upon lord Bergan's untimely demise.  
Meanwhile, those such as Oran, a man hailing from the rank and file and whom he wholeheartedly despised, had been promoted as equal to him!  
These things were sin against the Empire and Judge Bergan's memory.

Well, he would mend these wrongs. He would see those lesser brought down to their betters' knees.

* * *

Wulf's outstretched hand went limp, and he watched in abstract bewilderment as the mighty weapon which had severed the cord of many lives shattered like glass. The hilt fell to the stone floor as the shards of the blade lifted and were suspended within a fine silvery web of shadow and light.

Basch's Judge Magister's cloak seemed to billow in a gust of breeze as he reached to take Larsa beneath the protection of his mantle. The staff of his joined weapons he lifted, prepared to deflect any attack upon the young Emperor's being.

Jaiger swept his arms wide, sword in one hand, sheltering his Queen in the shade of his own body.

Drystan's arms were extended before him, his mouth agape in a soundless gasp.

Kasan Ranel stood unmoving, watching with pallid cheek and eyes of dismay.

It was as quick as a heartbeat and as slow as a dream...

The slivers of metal played in silent time, and seemed to circle the center of the hall. The spot where the Kingslayer had stood…

* * *

Inside the soft glow it was warm, comforting…  
Noah, eyelashes caught downturned in mid-blink and now sleepily lingering over his tired eyes, took a deep breath and felt refreshed. Slowly his lashes raised and his eyes soft-focused upon the face before him.

The boy's eyes were open wide with horror, and from them wispy threads of light wound and wove their way to surround the pair. His feet hovered well above the floor, and his arms were outstretched toward Noah. Anguish showed upon a face so pale the color could no longer be named. His very outline seemed to be receding, fading, slipping away, even as the light that surrounded the two brightened and solidified to a wall.

A jolt of understanding brought Noah's mind to renewed alertness as he saw the boy's physical being waning.  
"Faolyn!" When Noah took the hands that sought him they felt thin in his grip, and the shimmering cords continued to stream from the boy's body to wind protectively about them.

"Faolyn, hear me!" Noah released one of the boy's hands to move his own, but the thin, translucent palm snatched his wrist and would not be put away.  
He remembered the first time he'd held the boy's limp and tormented body beneath the trees, praying for the boy's life and, feeling the sting of the strange power that coursed through and from the child piercing his own skin.  
Noah did not try to fight the boy, but simply raised the arm, Faolyn's nails digging into his flesh, to stroke the smooth, vanishing cheek.  
More softly, and with all seriousness he called again, "…Do you hear me, young one?"

Something changed in Faolyn's eyes. A bit of focus with an awakening glimmer came.  
Noah felt relief of a deeper kind, and released a pent-up breath that seemed to itself evaporate like steam. "You saved my life not so long ago. And now you wish to protect me again. And I thank you…" It was a strange thing for his lips to say. The words felt clumsy and hurt to speak. It was his own task to protect others, to sacrifice for their sake…not to be protected by one in his care… "But my life is not this day yours to save."

A spark of rebellion flamed in the boy's eyes, and his grip hardened.

Noah met the glowing orbs directly. "…Faolyn, this is not your place. You must not abuse your gift this way."

A pang of hurt showed, and the light began to fade. As the boy's gaze faltered the threads became thinner.

More softly Noah spoke, "You must trust me."

Panicked question flared in the boy's eyes as the child searched for direction.

"Faolyn…" Noah's brow flinched as the boy recoiled at the words, "you must let me go."

Faolyn called for anger and found only shame and hurt. His eyes dropped.

Noah's own heart was pained. He reached to stroke the wild white-blonde hair that drifted upward on the current.

With a mournful cry, Faolyn folded and toppled like a ragdoll from his invisible perch. Noah caught him, holding the boy's drained, unconscious body in his arms.

* * *

Dax went as quickly as the manner expected of his position would allow, letting his eyes swiftly pass from face to face as he made his way through the Palace medical wing. "Lonnan?" He came to an abrupt halt as he saw the familiar form stretched out upon a cot, a team of healers about him.

"Dax…ugh…Dax…" Lonnan's breath was shallow and sporadic. His face was pale, eyes glassy. A trickle of blood darkened the corner of his mouth.

Dax felt ill. The signs were not good. "I am here."

"Dax…the soldier. The boy. It was him. It was him." Every word was a gasp. Every gasp took much needed strength from Lonnan's body.

Dax knew nothing of a boy or of which soldier Lonnan spoke, but he nodded to the affirmative and tried to put his friend's mind at ease. "I will see to it. Worry not."

Lonnan swallowed, coughed, and struggled for breath. Dax was pained by every tattered pull of air.

"That's enough talking." A young physician moved to Dax' side, and turned his back to the patient, speaking softly to Dax alone. "We must operate now. Say your goodbyes." He gave Dax a knowing look, and Dax tightened his hands into fists.

"Lonnan," Dax bent forward and spoke in a hushed but forceful voice, "Think of your children. Think of your wife. Do not leave Aneera with three little ones alone. Do not leave your children without a father." Lonnan's eyes had lost focus on his face. The physicians were moving in with their instruments and vials, tools of death and salvation.

Lonnan's eyes found clarity for only a moment more. "Dax…Aneera…I need…her…" He fought the pain.

"Pryderi!" Zargabaath's voice, sounding through the halls, interrupted the physicians and attendants that saw to the care of the returning soldiers.

The eyes of the wounded directed the Judge Magister, and his purposeful steps never paused until he found his way to the table where upon lie the battered body of the one he sought.

"Is he yet with us?" The Judge Magister queried of Dax.

"…Aneera…" Lonnan gasped once more, and his eyes closed, oblivious to the forms hovering over him.

Zargabaath frowned, and Dax stood unmoving and quiet.

"He is not to be disturbed…Your Honor." A young healer stumbled beneath the officer's gaze, and was at once displaced by Master Gervys.

"Keep away, I tell you! There is nothing more he can say, and is to go under the knife forthwith."

Zargabaath observed the preparations soberly. "Gracien."

"Sir?" Dax' voice was detached.

"Has he spoken?"

"A very little, Your Honor."

"And what is it that he said?"

Dax' eyes never left his colleague and friend as the team of healers began their bloody work. "He asked for his wife." The knight's words came slowly, as if he spoke from deadened lips.

Of course he did. Even seasoned veterans asked for their wives and mothers at the end. Zargabaath pressed, "Nothing else?"

"The boy." Dax frowned slightly as the surgeon's blade drew a line of crimson.

"The boy?" Zargabaath pondered the message.

"Lonnan's words were, 'the boy, it was him.'"

Dax might not have known what Lonnan intended by his tortured message, but Zargabaath's face grew grim with suspicion. He turned to the soldier who had first delivered the message. "Question all who returned from the field. Seek out any suspicious actions on either side of the border. Do not forget civilians. Ascertain of our men who is the boy and what he has to do with this deed."

"Yes, Sir." The soldier went at once.

Zargabaath looked to the knight at his side as Dax watched the healers do their part to try to mend what was crushed and torn, wondering if ever Lonnan would open his eyes again.

Zargabaath exhaled slowly, his brow drawn. He cared for the fate of the warrior. Let it not be said otherwise. And yet he thought too of the fates of the Emperor and the Empire. It was to them, as warriors of the realm, to sacrifice for their country and liege. The Empire's concerns must rest above all, even in such times…or especially.  
He continued his watchful study, and when he spoke his voice might have seemed somewhat stern though he himself was grieved. "You are an officer of the Imperial guard, Sir Gracien. The Emperor should be able to expect clarity and sound judgment in trying times. Are you capable of such?"

Dax' eyes left his friend and went to his commander, his pale complexion paler still. "Yes, Sir."  
Always he had done as asked.  
Against Dalmasca and upon Bur-Omisace he had accepted his duty and not flinched.

"I will count on you to show example and maintain decorum." Zargabaath's low, even tone was for Sir Gracien's ears alone.

Dax stood rigidly. "Yes, Sir." His eyes held the weight of the rebuke.

Inwardly Zargabaath sighed. It would be a tragedy indeed for Lonnan Pryderi's wife and the children if he should pass. Perhaps it would be best if all knights of the Empire maintained a bachelor and childless state. "Sir Gracien."

"Your Honor?"

"Go you and fetch the wife straightway."

Only Dax' eyes reflected his relief. "Yes, Sir."

* * *

As the strange light lifted, Jaiger struggled to catch his breath. The air was thick and rich and choked his lungs…or maybe that was residue from the swirling smoke and ash he'd inhaled at the border that tightened his chest. Strangely, one reminded him of the other.

The splinters of metal suddenly fell to the stone, clattering loudly.

Larsa, held by one strong arm against Basch's side, jumped. The young leader then came to himself, and separated from the protection of his guardian to walk closer to the scene.

Basch watched Larsa closely, and for reason beyond concern for his safety.  
With the call of horror from Faolyn's lips, a curtain of light had swept the room. But two young voices had been in that moment lifted. Larsa's attention had gone to Ashe.

Ashe, pressed up against Jaiger's broad back and kept by his hand on her arm, started. The young Captain flexed instinctively at her touch, reminding the Queen of their close proximately. Her face grew hot and pushed him forward sternly, his hand falling away.

Basch turned from his careful watch of Larsa to witness the exchange, but his expression was unreadable and he let his eyes pass.

As Kasan stared blankly at the man and child now seen within the fading swirl, Wulf bent to take up a piece of the broken sword, holding it in his hands with grieved eyes, and Drystan staggered forward, shaken and scared.  
For Drystan's part, he had feared for his Queen and his fellow soldiers. Now he feared the boy who had shyly introduced him to the Chocobo was dead.

Noah stood staring at the boy collapsed in his hold as the group that stood gathered at the steps of the dais began to assess what had come upon them.

"What…" The Queen's lips were parted in shock. "What _is_ he?"

"He is a _child_." Noah returned sharply, holding the body in the shield of his arms. And then his tone lost aggression as he began to entreat for the boy. "He meant no harm. He doesn't understand…" Resolve set his features like stone. "If he has offended, his sin is my crime. If there is to be any penalty add it to my sentence. I will pay."

"The boy is in the custody of my lord uncle, Sir Jolon Alasdair of Archadia, and shall remain. I will settle any question on his behalf." Larsa's voice rang out, a hint of challenge in his tone. There was a touch of personal indignation in his eyes as he looked to the Queen.

Ashe frowned at the boy Emperor as Noah looked to the young leader with bittersweet gratitude. "The question, dear Emperor Larsa, is not of what he has done… It is of what he might have done… Of what he might do still."

"Do you wish the boy secured?" Jaiger asked the question softly, the distaste of the words on his tongue written upon his face.

Noah tensed, and no one doubted that armed or no the Kingslayer would make the task of removing the boy from his protection a difficult and painful one for he who tried.

"What is the boy's state?" Ashe looked to the now fragile body that slumped against the Kingslayer's chest, gangly legs dangling loosely over his arm.

"He will recover." Noah watched Faolyn's chest feebly rise and fall, remembering how it had been before and how the boy had healed in his own time. He turned grim and guarded eyes to the Queen.

"Could we secure him if we wished it?" Ashe questioned frankly. And her question was again for her enemy.

"Lady Ashe… He is only a boy." Noah had wholly forgotten his own precarious ground in the defense of the child.

"Not _only_ a boy…" It was Kasan Ranel who spoke, so softly that his words were almost lost to them.

Noah whipped his attention to the Archadian with alarm and warning. Kasan met his eyes, held them for a moment, looked to the unmoving child, and then studied the floor, distractedly rubbing his fingers.

"He is right. We are none of us blind." Jaiger's brow was drawn, creating a downward peak between his eyes.

"He tore the sword from Wulf's hand! And shattered it!" Drystan was most amazed. He spoke in awe, his eyes full of wonder. It was difficult to say if he was fearful or admiring.

Wulf wandered the large floor, stooping now and then to gather a shard of what had been his prized weapon. He'd not spoken. His face was pale and his lips were tight.

Kasan took up the hilt of the weapon, and studied solemnly his destroyed work.  
The blade had been well made and forged of strong stuff. This should not have happened…  
If the child could do such a thing in a fit of panic…what could Dwen do with intent to destroy?

"But you have not answered. _Could _we restrain him? Is he a danger, here and now? I advise you to answer true." Ashe focused her cool gaze upon her enemy.

Noah felt helpless and vulnerable. He had no weapon, and his arms were full of the manchild that was now made to seem a threat. He had no means to protect or defend.  
A deep instinct, born in the womb and nurtured through childhood, directed his eyes to Basch.  
There his brother stood, cloaked in strength, bedecked in the familiar armor, and clenching the joined Chaos Blade and Highway Star. He found his brother's eyes already intently upon him.

Basch felt his brother's fear even before he saw the petition in his eyes.  
Perhaps only for a child would Noah stoop to ask for his aid…but the plea was there.  
He took a step toward Noah, and his words were for the young Dalmascan ruler.  
"Ashe, let us not forget the urgency of the hour. Even now our people suffer upon the border between our nations. Our attention must not be stolen."

The tension eased somewhat as all turned their thoughts back to the task.

Jaiger nodded intently, soot smeared face a reminder to them all of the message he had come to bring.

"Then he should answer quickly, and not delay us further." The words of the Lady were a demand, but under Basch's steady gaze her manner had softened.

Noah looked to the boy as he spoke. His words were muted. "He has been much weakened by the effort, and will remain so for a time. How long, I cannot say." And then he hastened to add, "But I tell you, he is no threat to your person or your throne whether weak or strong."

"Such power, unrestrained…it's a dangerous thing." Ashe spoke softly, no anger or condemnation in her tone but only concern for her people now.

"He will know restraint." Noah wished to add, _I will teach him_, but bit his tongue. He would not have the chance.  
"Many learn the skills of magicite." Noah offered this argument for consideration, knowing all the while it was weak and would be quickly torn apart.

"_Learn_, yes. In training, and with the use of aids. And countless adornments or weapons are forged with inclusions to cater toward one ability or another. I am certain Master Ranel can attest to this. " Ashe motioned toward the Archadian.

Master Ranel said not a word, eyes intently upon the floor. Basch watched as the artisan lost himself in troubled consideration.

"One might learn, with time and study, to focus these into a usable skill. …This is not what we see here." Jaiger accepted the burden of stating what until now had been left unsaid. "The boy is _himself _a vessel. He is _himself_ a weapon." The young Captain was eager to be off, wishful of seeking out an answer to the violence, but he could not leave her if to do so would be to put Queen Ashelia in danger.

Wulf was crouched down, gathering another broken remainder from the stone. His hand froze and he lifted his eyes to his friend. All other eyes were also upon the Dalmascan Captain. It was as still and silent as in those moments of winding light…

Jaiger felt their gaze, and with it the sickness in his stomach that began like a clenched fist and spread as he went on. But it had to be said. "If he can do such as this now, in a moment of childish fear…" He trailed off, and then picked up again. "What might he do if he purposed to harm-"

Kasan felt his chest tighten. It was the very dread that gnawed at his mind.

"No harm came to anyone. Wulf lost only his sword, not limb or life. Your Queen is safe. The Castle stands. Only the boy is in danger. Only he suffers." Concern for the boy drove Noah to anger and made his words sharp, smoldering anger in his eyes and the aggression of the warrior in his stance.  
Faolyn did not stir through all. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest betrayed life.

Ashe's eyes were upon the Kingslayer, for so he seemed once more, fierce and threatening all she loved.

Basch saw the change on the young woman's face and stepped toward his brother slowly. "Noah, the questions must be asked. You have served the Empire. You understand."

_You know from experience that they will ask these difficult questions until they are assured of the safety of the throne and their people. You understand that you must let this thing run its course, and not bring cause for any further alarm… Do so, brother, and it will be over soon enough. _

This was the meaning behind Basch's abbreviated words. Noah heard something else altogether.

_You cannot be trusted, brother. And why should they trust you? You have served their enemy, the Empire. You have betrayed my trust and slain their king. You must accept this as justice due._

What might have been pity in Basch's eyes was taken for mockery, felt like condemnation, and burned like an iron.

Noah's eyes went hollow and turned to steel. "Don't pet me, Basch." He coldly threw the words like daggers of ice beneath his breath.

Basch's face hardened, and he looked away, deterred once more by the divide between interpretation and intent.

"He's right… The boy _didn't_ harm anyone." Kasan now spoke softly. "Though he could have, he didn't. He only wanted to protect his friend." Emotion suddenly found its way into his voice. "Any of us might have done the same, using whatever means was at our disposal, if someone were to threaten our loved ones. Is this not so?"

Basch bowed his head. Kasan Ranel would soon know the truth…

"Master Ranel speaks with wisdom." Larsa had been quiet for some time, but now his voice rang out with strength and conviction. "Think on this. A sword is not evil of itself, neither is an arrow, nor a stone. But each can be used for evil if the heart of the wielder intends. And yet still we neither banish the weapon for what might be nor prejudge a man for making such a purchase. Is this not true? To do so would be folly in my mind. Think any that if the heart of a man means evil that he would not find some innocent thing to work that evil in his hand? And yet a man of good heart might gather any number of these tools we call a danger and never use them to bring harm."

Kasan nodded, encouraged by Larsa's support. "The heart's intent of the child is surely shown by that we stand unharmed with those shards lying upon the floor and not in our breasts…" He thought of Dwen…her lips pressing upon his…her warning that she could not save him…her panic and pleading…and that she had let him go to come here…  
Was she safe? Was her grace for him spent?  
Would next they meet _she_ be the weapon that would slay him?  
He was sick inside… These people, Dalmascan and Archadian, needed to know… They must know…  
But to reveal the truth at this moment…it would make the child an enemy… He could not.

"You aren't going to hurt him, are you?" Drystan stepped forward, his face contorted with desperate worry. "He's just a kid."

Jaiger's eyes were on the young knight. The Dalmascan Captain was breathing very slowly, very steadily… He was working hard to maintain his control so that he might face whatever duty Ashe put upon him.  
Drystan lowered his eyes under the steady gaze.

Ashe reached a hand out toward Jaiger. "Jaiger, let it be known that our stance at the border is this; we work with our allies to protect the citizens of Ivalice. To this end, we work side by side with our Archadian allies."

Jaiger nodded, "Understood."

Ashe continued, "Send a fresh detail to the border, and set additional patrols to observe any threats. Oh yes, and see what you can discover on the doings of the Denali family, past and present… I wish to know all that you find. We will have much to discuss."

Basch recognized the change in her tone. She had moved on. A touch of a smile flitted across his lips. His mind still raced.  
_He would pass on what he knew of the Denali family to Jaiger… They would solve this puzzle if they must do so piece by piece._

To Drystan, and so indirectly to the Kingslayer, Ashe added as if it were nothing. "The boy is free to go."

The relief in the great room could be heard and felt.

Jaiger's hairline was suddenly sprinkled with beads of sweat that only now sprang to the surface. Though he himself had become a warrior not many years past the boy's tender age, Jaiger acknowledged his terror at the thought of being made to deal with what must still be called a child. He exhaled in a gust, and gave Wulf's shoulder a forgiving, brotherly pat as he passed.

Wulf nodded wordlessly to his friend's gesture and turned away to finish stacking the shards one upon another.

Drystan grinned at the boy happily, and then sobered as he saw there was no response. "He will be okay, won't he?" Though the goings on of the past hours and the current talk of the Kingslayer had made at least one thing unmistakably clear, Drystan showed no hatred as he addressed his nation's enemy. Only concern for the boy wrapped in the Kingslayer's arms could be seen upon his face.

Noah nodded, and allowed a slight smile for the compassion of the young knight.

Kasan closed his weary eyes for a moment, and still he could not escape Dwen's face.

Ashe noted the fatigued, worn droop of his shoulders, and the heavy sigh.  
"Drystan, see this man receives whatever accommodations he needs." Ashe waved her hand toward Kasan, and her expression was softer than the Archadian had seen it since his arrival.

"Faolyn-" Noah began to make the request to see to the boy, but Basch interrupted.

"My lady," Basch interrupted in his own familiar tone, and the gentle address warmed Ashe's heart. He made his way to stand before her. "I withdraw to see to the matter at hand. Kasan Ranel will come with us. The Emperor will see to his needs."

Drystan stopped midstride and looked questioningly to the Queen.  
Kasan yawned. For a bath and a bed what would he give…

Larsa made no move to leave. His eyes were serious, set upon the Queen.

Noah looked to Wulf, but the Nabradian's eyes were staring at some undefined spot on the floor.  
The knight's attempt to force Ashe into a decision for the Kingdom's sake had gone awry, and it had cost him. It had been an unlikely and unwise plan from the start. Noah had seen little to lose, though Faolyn's arrival had made the price soar to unreachable heights. Had Wulf truly counted the cost from the start?  
Likely now they would make their home together in the dank cells, awaiting similar fates.  
…Pleasant thought.  
And who would see the child to Tarachande and away? Faolyn must not awaken in this place…

"Yes… Of course." Ashe gazed up at her friend and former guardian with a tenderness that had not been these past days. She offered her hand, and Basch touched it to his lips. She pressed his gloved fingers affectionately with her own. There were no other words between them, but as he dipped his head and backed away she took in the angles and panes of his face, the color of his eyes… It was like viewing a favored painting. Like having a fond memory replayed and renewed. Seeing him was like home in the early days of her childhood.

For a moment there was silence, and then she flicked her arm toward the _other_… "Take _him_ with you. I tire of these games. My hospitality, like my patience, is growing thin." She turned, unwilling to look upon _that one's_ face again.

Noah started, and glanced at Basch for some sign that would tell him if the next move was his end, but Basch's face wore only surprise and then question.

Larsa showed no reaction at all. "Queen Ashelia." He turned and led their number from the great hall without any further word for the Dalmascan ruler or she for him.  
Basch heard the tension between them like a shout. Not all conflict had seen its end here. He was troubled for them both, but it was time that Larsa went home.

Wulf shifted from one foot to the next. "Ashe?" His voice revealed pain.

She let her eyes move across the familiar face. "Drystan, resume your duties. Wulf, walk with me."

Drystan looked to Wulf with trepidation and sympathy, and then followed his Queen's command.

They were silent as they left the confines for the dry heat of the courtyard. There they watched as a renewed band left with a supply wagon and a physician for the border, and as Jaiger and a freshened company departed to investigate.

Wulf groaned softly as he watched them go, despairing that he was not among them at Jaiger's side to protect his friend. Instinctively he put his hand to the empty sheath that once housed his mighty blade, and dropped his eyes.

Ashe heard the lament, and turned to seek Wulf's eyes. "You have made your choice…and with it yourself responsible for what may come. I hope you do not find regret. Watch him closely. …And also the boy."

"I understand." Wulf's voice was gruff.

So did she understand his reasons… The anniversary to the fall of Nabudis was soon upon them…

"Go now." Ashe commanded softly, and, before he could argue against leaving her alone, lifted a hand and motioned toward another knight nearby. "Shyre will see me back."

Wulf bowed, and quickly left, but not before she saw the tears glistening upon his russet lashes.

Ashe forced thoughts of Wulf's suffering away, and turned to another weighing on her mind.  
Wulf's foolhardy act did not undo her arrangement with Larsa...  
Let the boy Emperor be displeased. She would not be swayed.

This she continued to think on as she walked the gardens with Shyre silent at her side.

She watched the Imperial airship rise, picked a red-orange bloom and breathed deeply.  
Once more her walls were free of the shadow that haunted her nightmares.  
…But with him went the one who brought light and safety to her dreams…

Well, the Empire could have its black knight home again. She had kept her word.  
But her mercy would last only if Larsa did as he promised her…  
Only if once this conflict had passed Basch fon Ronsenburg was returned to Dalmasca and to her side…where he belonged.


	35. A Stranger Homecoming

Though the airship was outfitted for the Emperor's ease, the journey from Dalmasca to Archadia had not been particularly comfortable.

As Tarachande tended to Faolyn, Kasan slept and Wulf, the Queen's newly appointed _diplom_at to Archadia, brooded darkly in the corner.

Wandering through the spacious airship and worrying over Faolyn, Noah's mind was reeling from the dramatically shifting events in Dalmasca. Ashe had toyed with his fate to satisfy her need to see him suffer. That part he could understand and accept. He would have taken much worse from her hand and not blinked. Death had been the expected end. It was the release that left him unsettled. She had tossed him back to the Empire without cost? Why? Such things are not resolved without price.

Basch had not spoken to him, had not even truly looked at him since the lady Ashe had released Noah to his keep. ... Noah wondered if but for Larsa Basch would have him in chains.

He stopped to watch Basch preparing Larsa for his homecoming, and somberly considered the child Emperor.

Never had Larsa assigned blame for the part Noah had played in carrying out the schemes of the elder Solidors, nor for his failings in the deaths of Gramis or Drace.  
Perhaps it would be better if he did. He would not be made a liability to the young Emperor.

Larsa sensed the familiar presence, standing, as was his usual, just close enough to intercept danger or anticipate need while just far enough away to observe the bounds of his place. Loyal sentiment for the strong tower who had guarded his steps for so long was followed by affection for the one who now stood close to his side. Relief at the safe return of the one was combined with sadness at knowing the newly found companionship he'd come to count on would soon end...

Watching Larsa's serious and sober demeanor throughout the flight from Dalmasca, hands folded in the pretense of calmness Noah sensed the boy did not feel, brought back the memory of the return to the Palace from Mt. Bur-Omisace.

_What words the Gran Kiltias had been speaking to the child heir when he stormed into their midst that fell day Judge Magister Gabranth had not known, nor had he particularly cared. _

_Leaving Bergan to muster the troops and Zargabaath to oversee the mission from among his maps and charts, Gabranth flew a small ship from the carrier and entered the peaceful realm ahead of the surge. He came like a whirlwind, possessed by a singular driving thought that would not let him rest; he would not fail the one who needed him…not this time._

_Gabranth raced through the temple ahead of Bergan and approached the inner circle, the echo of his heavy boots pounding upon the stone ringing through the expansive cavity. He was determined that Larsa's safety should not be compromised, nor should he be made to endure the violent scenes that were sure to come if Bergan got to the young lord first. _

"_Ah! Look now, we are honored with the presence of Archadian Law and Might." Al-Cid Margrace appeared across the walkway. The Rozarrian spoke lightly to the young lady at his side, as if in confidence, but there was no attempt to lower his tone and he sauntered toward an intersection with the officer of the opposing Empire._

_Gabranth's pace did not slow, and he refused to be diverted by the Rozarrian's attempted bait._

"_Your timing is fascinating, Judge Magister. I wonder…are you a step ahead or a step behind?" _

_The question piqued Noah's awareness for a moment. Behind…? _

_Larsa had been meeting with the Gran Kiltias in hopes of turning the tide toward peace.  
Al-Cid Margrace was here.  
Who else had visited this hall of late?  
The displaced Dalmascan heir.  
Heh. Yes. Likely.  
And if she had come, then……  
But if Basch had been here recently he was gone now, and it was well he was gone.  
There was no time and he had not the strength for it; not this day._

"_Larsa. Where is he?" The question was a command, and Gabranth's voice was like the sound of arrows loosed, quiet but sharp, unforgiving and cold._

"_The freshly seated Archadian Autocrat wishes to grieve o'er the death of his beloved father in the arms of tender kin, no doubt." Dry mocking underscored Al-Cid's smooth melodic tones._

_Gabranth stalked toward the Rozarrian, swords glinting as he moved. Unarmed priests and pilgrims cowered and quaked. "Either draw that pistol, Margrace, or step aside." The devoted recoiled from the talk of violence and hurried away. Gabranth let them go. He had not come for them. _

"_Perhaps another time would be best." Al-Cid shrugged amicably as he waved an arm for Gabranth to pass. _

_Gabranth brushed by with a cutting stare and an unyielding hand. Al-Cid's favor and fate were not his concern. _

_Behind him Al-Cid spoke softly to the young woman at his side, "And so the hell hounds of Archadia are set upon us." _

_Beyond the towering doorway and into the inner sanctum Gabranth dared without hesitation, ignoring the protests of startled priests and the weave of pained sorrow and peaceful contentment that crossed the wizened face of the Dream-sage with the Judge Magister's approach. _

_Neither the boy nor the elder questioned Gabranth's presence as he stood poised to brace against a threat that, like the storm he carried in his chest day and night, had with him come. _

_Larsa's eyes were a touch red when he lifted them to Gabranth's shielded face. The sight of the young one's grief stung like a lash at the warrior's heart. _

"_Lord Vayne calls for your return." Gabranth ground his teeth as he forced himself to wait for Larsa. He wished instead to grab the boy up and run for the nearest escape._

"_Yes…I will go. I need only a moment longer, Gabranth." Larsa nodded but turned back to the silent sage._

"_My lord," Gabranth's voice was calm but weighted with seriousness. Larsa knew the tone and listened. "There is a charge set upon the Kiltia of harboring and conspiring with enemies of the Empire. At lord Vayne's command, The Alexander carries orders to extract you to safety. Judge Magister Bergan accompanies to see to the security of this place."_

_Larsa paled, and whirled to stare at his guardian, desperation widening his reddened eyes. "I am in no danger, Gabranth! There is no need! The Kiltia maintain neutrality, and it is I who seek the Gran Kiltias' guidance in the cause of peace!" _

"_Then I advise we leave at once." The intensity behind Gabranth's quiet insistence was not lost on the boy._

_Larsa did not resist. "Yes, Gabranth. I must return and explain this mistaken interpretation of events to my brother." The boy was distressed and dismayed. Despite words grander than his few years the trembling lips and frightened features spoke eloquently of his youth. "Gran Kiltias Anastasis, I must now return to my lord brother…" _Larsa excused himself respectfully and rushed out of the chamber under the protection of his shield.

_As they departed, Noah turned his eyes one last time upon the peaceful elder. The Gran Kiltias' eyes were closed in dream, a saddened smile upon his aged lips._

_At Gabranth's word, "This way, lord Larsa," the boy allowed himself to be redirected along a route that would see him safely inside the Alexander before Bergan's destructive hand could stain the horizon._

_Gabranth's desire to protect Larsa had been met with their successful return to carrier, but Larsa's hope that his recovery would stay the onslaught was dashed._

"_Recall the troops, Zargabaath! At once! I command it!" Larsa's order held a touch of pleading. _

_Zargabaath met Gabranth's eyes grimly and Gabranth turned his own eyes away. _

"_Those under my authority return to see you home, my lord." Zargabaath spoke with calm respect for the youngest Solidor. "Judge Magister Bergan's orders come from the throne and cannot be changed by any but His Excellency, lord Vayne." _

_Larsa turned fretful eyes to Gabranth, and allowed his guardian to direct him to a private chamber where he might not be disturbed. _

_Gabranth removed his helm, though he craved the cover that it gave, and waited, a silent sentinel, for the questions he knew would come. And they came. _

"_My father…Gabranth, it is true then? He is dead?" Larsa's voice was but a whisper. The childish hands that were clasped together upon the gilded slab before him had white knuckles. _

"_Yes, my lord." Gabranth swallowed, but his throat was scratchy and his voice rough.  
Unwelcome memories forced their way through gates long held barred. Memories of when he had first met death in the form of his own father's empty, unresponsive shell. _

_Larsa bent his head, bowed under the weight of sorrow. "How?" The damp eyes that had lifted to focus upon Gabranth held a trace of anger and more of despair. Gabranth could not hold his gaze. _

"_It is said the Senate is to blame." Never did he doubt Drace' judgment, but Gabranth was careful, mindful that there was no proof of Vayne's hand in the affairs and that the surety of Larsa's safety was left tenuous. _

_Larsa blinked back tears, repeating quietly Gabranth's words. "It is said…" He continued slowly, "And, if what they say is so, they mean to weaken House Solidor and seize power for the Senate. And yet in doing this thing they weaken Empire itself…" Larsa trailed off into thought._

_Gabranth watched him carefully.  
...This thing…_

_The Alexander began its return path._

_Larsa spoke no further of the father who had been the benevolent if authoritative presence throughout his young life, administering matters pertaining to his youngest son with an indulgent but watchful eye. Noah felt the boy's emptiness, and crossed to the window to catch his own breath and give the child a moment. _

_Looking out Gabranth saw smoke rising in swirling columns from Bur-Omisace. _

_Slowly, as if he was afraid of the answer, Larsa questioned his guardian. "You, Gabranth? What do you say?" _

"_It is not my place, my lord." Burdened by shame that he could not fully name, and for which there was no cure, he turned from the retreating view._

"_I make it your place, Gabranth. Speak." Larsa's dogged resolve was made clear in his strengthened tone and by the clenched fists upon the table. His guardian could not but obey._

"_If the Senate is to blame, my lord, they have authored a fool's errand with no reward to find but that of imprisonment, disgrace, and death." The direct reply trailed off as Gabranth wondered if these words put Larsa in more danger than his silence. _

"_Continue, Gabranth." Larsa prompted him without looking up. His voice was now even as his thoughts became more ordered. "Tell me the condition of things." _

"_Chairman Gregoroth is named leader of the conspiracy, and is dead. The Senate is disbanded and imprisoned. In your father's absence Lord Vayne assumes full control of law and land." No inflection of guilt was added to the statement. Larsa needed to understand, and yet such understanding was a dangerous thing for the child. He had no army to oppose Vayne, if so he found will, and Gabranth did not have the strength to answer Vayne, Venat, Bergan, and the rest alone. The boy must not be sacrificed because of his weakness. _

_As Larsa pensively considered, Gabranth braced himself for what be his next revelation. With a silent groan he defied his own spirit and faced what must be. "Lord Larsa…you must know. Judge Magister Drace……" His lips were numb, and his tongue felt thick as he fought to speak the hated words. "She is no more." _

_If already the blade had not cut deeply enough, the quivering of the young brow had caused the knife to twist violently into Noah's chest. _

"_Ah!" Larsa gasped as if struck a vicious blow, and tears sprang to his eyes. His fists pounded upon the table before him as he rebelled against the hated news. "No!" And then he groaned, rage replaced by sadness, "How, Gabranth?" Again he looked so young… Gabranth could see the little child who had looked up at him with wonder and expectation lingering in the eyes of this boy. "Why?" _

_With no memories of the mother who had so soon abandoned this life for the next, Drace had been more mother to Larsa than any other. Though she had resisted yielding to the idea that she cared for the boy beyond her position, Gabranth knew the truth.  
Perhaps in the end it was this unconfessed maternal feeling, masked by duty and place, which had caused her to throw off reason and defy lord Vayne before the body of Law. He would not tell Larsa that she gave herself for love of him. The boy suffered enough…and would suffer more when the account was fully told. _

"_It is said she played the traitor and so met her end." Gabranth's voice was become cold and lifeless, unconvincing even to his own ears. He had cared not. He had been bound to Vayne's judgment for the sake of Larsa, but he would not have Larsa believe such of her. Never._

"_She..." The young face had tilted toward him, lips tight, eyes full and searching. _

_Gabranth winced, felt his brow pulse and looked away, unable to hold the gaze that condemned him by its lack of blame. "The sentence has been carried out."  
It was all he could manage in the moment without choking on the angry bile that rose in his throat, but Larsa deserved more. He swallowed hard and continued, repulsed by his own words and the truth of them. "By my hand."_

_The weight of that shame nearly pushed him to his knees, but somehow he had straightened and stood fast, determined that he would not relieve his own sorrow at Larsa's expense. It was a burden, and a promise, that he and Drace had shared. He alone was left to bear it out to the end. _

_Larsa looked down at his fingertips and then away. "Oh… I see." _

_No further questions were asked, and Larsa turned his eyes away, but Gabranth had seen the tear that slipped down the young cheek. _

_In that tear ran a trail of memories shared between the three._

_The turning hands of time had seen Larsa grow from the babbling child to this keen but gentle young man. Bonds had strengthened, alliances formed, and the warrior's body had been further scarred. In that tear fell all this and more, like tender petals are torn from the limb and scattered in the gale force._

"_Lord Larsa…" Deeply wishful of taking away the pain he had in his part caused, Gabranth had moved an armored hand hesitantly toward the boy. His hand froze above Larsa's shoulder as Larsa hesitantly spoke once more._

"_Do you believe she was a traitor, Gabranth?" How fragile the young sapling seemed. _

_Gabranth's voice was strained. His hand clenched to a fist and dropped to his side."She was true, my lord. No less true in the end than at the beginning." _

_When the airship docked at the upper level of the Palace the young heir had walked silently beside his guardian as they went together into the presence of the waiting Vayne Solidor. _

_It was the beginning of a brutal awakening for the child, and a cruel twist; the destruction of innocence and the disillusionment of honor so that innocence might be reborn and honor reclaimed._

Soon they had received word that Bergan had not survived the journey to Bur-Omisace…  
And Gabranth would learn that Basch had returned to the Mount with and his companions, too late to save the Gran Kiltias but soon enough to see to the Judge Magister's end…  
It had been a defeat for the Empire that Gabranth had found no reason to regret.  
Bergan's demise was a victory for Larsa, and some smallest bit of recompense for Drace.

Noah's eyes gentled as he looked at the young Emperor. He would not take release from the charge to defend Larsa as long as he drew breath. He had promised himself. He had promised Drace.  
But then he could see that Larsa had found a needed and trusted confidant in Basch and was glad.

Noah turned his eyes to his brother, felt a familiar pang, sighed lightly, and turned away…

…He was glad for them both.

Basch was tired. Noah could see that the conflict in Dalmasca weighed upon his brother's shoulders.  
It had been too many years since the days when they had trusted one another enough to give up their burdens for sharing.  
Only in the case of Larsa had they done so, both believing Noah to have found his end.

…What if they _had_ trusted one another years ago…  
What if Basch had come when…  
Or what if he had sought out Basch when…

The Empire spread out before them, and the Palace loomed as the airship drew near.

Noah severed the thread of thought before it could unwind further.

It was no use. They had not.

* * *

The boy…only one soldier was missing in the count; young Aramis McCall. There was speculation he had been destroyed in the blast along with his sister, the strange tale of their meeting having been told. Zargabaath did not believe it.

"The boy, the soldier," Pryderi had said, according to Gracien… It could be no other. And so it must be that this destruction came somehow at Aramis McCall's hand.

Following the trail of the boy's recorded life led only to the graves of the elder McCalls. He had agents investigating the family through all channels, and the boy's papers were being carefully reviewed. It took more time than he liked… Perhaps more than they had.

If only Pryderi was awake to provide more information on the attack…

As his mind sorted out the events Zargabaath debated if had he done right in sending Gracien for Pryderi's wife.

How many warriors of the Imperium had whispered a prayer for their loved ones and gone resolutely into the arms of death at his word of command?  
To how many prepared letters of condolence had he lent his name?  
How many posthumous medals of Honor had he approved?

He did not take the deaths of those who served the Empire lightly.  
And yet the task of personally notifying the families of their loss belonged to others.  
A Judge Magister's time was strenuously taxed.  
Often the task was given to his lieutenants; often to Dax Gracian and Lonnan Pryderi.

The last time he had himself delivered a personal notification, this for a Judge who had long served beneath his command, had been the first such experience for his newest officer, Dax Gracien.

_Dax had followed him from the private airship, and waited as he stood in silent thought upon the sidewalk. _

_The home had been unpretentious but of quality construction and well kept; appropriate quarters for an Archadian officer's family unit. Not altogether unlike the home where Zargabaath had himself been raised._

_The dusky light of evening and sidewalk lanterns played with the warm glow escaping from the sliver of space between curtains.  
Like eyes the window panes seemed to watch him there, solemn and protective shields, wishful of separating those kept safe within from the news he must bear. _

_He could make out shadows moving to and fro in the constant tide of family activity. He had hoped the children were abed…_

_Dax walked behind the Judge Magister, his arms formally holding a sacred bundle.  
Zargabaath's face was a grim but calm mask as he stepped forward to complete the task he had come to serve. _

_At the door Zargabaath removed his helm, his chest rising only slightly as he took a slow, deep breath and lifted his hand. His knuckles came down firmly and precisely upon the doorframe, once, twice, and then his hand fell to his side as he stood waiting. _

_Inside the home he heard a scurry of movement and muffled laughter. The sound brought a melancholy smile to Zargabaath's face._

_The war had been unduly harsh on family life. Pride in their warrior children, mates, and parents was the only balm to offer. Talk of peace had created a false sense of safety in the minds of loved ones toward those who served. Would it make loss more offensive to the hearts of those left alone? _

_The young ones were likely all too accustomed to going without their father's presence.  
Would the children realize a difference now that he was truly gone? _

_A moment of silence settled within, and Zargabaath could imagine the mistress of the house smoothing her clothing, tidying wisps of hair, and taking a last look about in preparation for her guests as his own mother had often done. _

_The door opened even as the lady tucked a last stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes?" _

_Eyes that had been mildly curious and somewhat impatient at the unexpected interruption of her evening routine went wide with surprise at the dignified visitor at her door.  
"Judge Magister Zargabaath?" Never had her husband's commander ventured here.  
Automatically her gaze shifted as she looked behind him. Seeing the other soldier she peered on into the darkening night. _

_Zargabaath knew… She was looking for her husband…  
"My lady, might we have a moment?"_

_A boy and girl, both looking to be in their early teen years, appeared behind the concerned woman. "Who is it, Mother?" _

"_Go to your rooms. Go." _

_They seemed to feel impending doom in her voice and gave her no argument, staring back over their shoulders from their mother to the intruders and moving closer to one another as they went. _

_Wordlessly she stepped aside and allowed them to enter. _

_When the Judge Magister and Knight emerged, the sky was dark, stars mockingly bright against a canvas of ink. Zargabaath stood again silent upon the walkway. Dax' hands were now empty, his fists clenched. A cloak of sorrow wrapped thickly about the pair. _

_The seed of dread that had taken root in her eyes at the sight of the visitors came to full bloom as the Judge Magister's difficult but necessary words informed her of her husband's death and brought all her worst fears to life. _

_How her tears had raced, tumbling one over another down her face, soundless in grief too great to find its voice… He had helped her to sit, and chivalrously watched over her in her grief, but though he was a man who had commanded warriors for the better part of two decades he felt stranded in such times. There was no order he could give to bring a husband and father back to his family. _

_Dax had gently given over the wooden box with all its treasures, and the widow had tenderly stroked and caressed each item within, holding onto the markers of her husband's life.  
And next had come the question of why. _

_Zargabaath had answered truthfully, concisely, and as kindly as he knew.  
Did it help her to know? Did he meet her need? The grief in her eyes had not lessened. _

_Zargabaath had, in his measured and disciplined way, given all he knew to give. He ended with words of honor for the brave soldier who had followed his command through war and peacetime. "Dear lady, your husband will be remembered as a noble son of Archadia, a brave and loyal knight. That he gave his life in service to the Empire, we will not forget." Did the words seem cold and trite to her ears?_

_Dax had transferred the sword taken from the Judge's lifeless hand into those of his wife. She had viewed it without expression, and then numbly returned it to the knight. "Keep it. Or bury it with him." She had turned as young faces peered around the hallway. "He has given me the better part of himself."_

_As they walked away the sounds of laughter behind the home's glass eyes had been replaced with fresh tears as two more voices were added to the harmony of sorrow…_

"Judge Magister, Senator Soleine requests a meeting in your chambers, your Honor."

He had done all that he could. Zargabaath dismissed the scene with a hand over his eyes, and stood calmly to ready himself for the battle at hand.

* * *

Dax knocked again, more forcefully, upon Lonnan's front door, and this time he heard footsteps calmly approaching from the other side.

When she saw him there her smile was both friendly and confused. "Dax?" It had been months since her husband's colleague and friend had visited.

"Lady Aneera…" His voice was raspy. "It's Lonnan."

Instantly her dark eyes widened, and the fear he had expected to come was there and strong.  
Her lips tightened and her knuckles were white upon the latch. Her free hand went to her swollen belly, comforting the child who might never see a father's face.

"I won't lie. It's bad, Aneera." Dax was ashamed to hear a strain of fear in his own voice. "He needs you."

To know that he was still living gave her strength. She whirled back into the house, and emerged in a moment with one child balanced in her arms and holding the other child's hand. She hurried across the lawn to the neighbor's where she spoke a few words to the elderly woman at the door. The aged lady accepted the small, uninvited guests without protest.

Returning to Dax' side, Aneera grasped the knight's arm. "Take me to him."

Dax spoke not a word as the craft lifted. He looked down at the home below, growing smaller by the instant, and wondered if the years his friend had spent building a family and a home had been destroyed in a moment.

* * *

A cool breeze was sweeping across Archades when the airship docked at the upper level of the Royal Palace.

The hood of the worn cloak, recovered from his few confiscated goods, was pulled down to Noah's eyes. The hem swept out behind him in uneven tatters. His arms were full of the still dreaming Faolyn.

Basch, helmed and with heavy mantle lifting as it caught a gust of air, passed Noah by to lead the group across the walkway, Larsa close by his side.

Noah cast a watchful glance about. He had spent more time in this land than any other. He could have mapped their route to the Palace in his sleep. As Gabranth he had come to know the pulse of the City. As Noah he now felt the stranger he had once truly been and would perhaps in part always be.

He felt Kasan's somber eyes upon him, heard Tarachande impatiently directing them onward, and caught murmurs of Wulf's disgruntled retort as the Nabradian rebelliously lagged behind.

The wind lifted strands of Faolyn's tangled mane. The corded threads grazed Noah's cheek, sending a tingling sensation across his skin.

Noah expelled a puff of air from his nostrils as he considered the irony of this situation. He could almost hear Drace mocking him. _"This is the Royal Palace of Archadia, Gabranth, and not a peasant's abode. Pray do make an attempt to appear respectable."_ A smile flitted across his face and then disappeared with the echo of her voice.

He fell in behind his brother…and followed Judge Magister Gabranth inside.

* * *

"Tell me, esteemed Judge Magister, how is it when there are Imperial soldiers wounded, missing, and feared dead that the Emperor is yet absent?" The ring upon her finger, stretching from knuckle to knuckle, glinted as she waved her hand dramatically in presenting an argument that sounded more like accusation. "How is it when circumstances strongly suggest a Dalmascan hand in this tragedy that our leader remains in company with the Dalmascan Queen?"

"Take heed, my lady Senator. " Zargabaath's hands were folded upon the desk before him. "Remember the company _you _keep. Unless you aim to be judged by your words, I suggest you mind them more carefully. " Zargabaath's even tone was absolute as he continued. "His Excellency, lord Larsa, works to the good of the Empire, as always."

"Such has always been your word on such matters… Let us hope _this time_ you are right." She smiled, but there was no relaxing of her eyes. "You understand, I am sure, that my colleagues will not be as easily satisfied with the soundings of your noble faith, dear Zargabaath. They will want to know _when_ they can expect our young ruler." Both challenge and warning were in her eyes. "They will expect to be given explanation of our losses and to hear a clear path toward resolution. What, I wonder, would you say to them?"

Zargabaath held her gaze calmly, but truthfully he was concerned. She was right in saying Larsa needed to soon return to the seat of power. The young leader was too fresh in his rule to allow the throne to lose the warmth of his presence. The Senate would grow bolder every day he delayed, justified by conflict that granted opportunity.

"Senator-" Zargabaath had just begun to weave his answer when a knight interrupted.

"My apologies, Judge Magister Zargabaath, but his Excellency, Emperor Larsa, requests your presence in his chambers."

Though he took care not to reveal his relief at Larsa's return, the same was shown as the tension eased from Zargabaath's brow. He met the lady Senator's eyes and nodded respectfully. Both knew that for the moment he had won.

Faint beginnings of lines at the corners of the Senator's still youthful eyes were accentuated by silent laughter in acknowledgment of the victory.

The soldier left, and Zargabaath rose, signaling an end to their duel. She accompanied him from the room, and then paused a moment. "Let us hope that your faith is not ill placed, old friend." Genuine fondness and concern slipped into her tone. "Let us hope that the young Emperor has good tidings. The Senate will not be blinded by his youth or idealistic bent. They will have answer." Her tone increased in seriousness, "As is right they should. The Empire belongs not to House Solidor. It is our homeland too."

They parted, and Zargabaath made his way on with hastened step and anxious spirit. How precarious was peace. The young Emperor must stand strong.

* * *

Basch had released for a time the grateful physician from her luxurious prison to allow Kasan Ranel privacy with his wounded mother. Recounting the events had been difficult. Kasan had only seemed to pick up a word here or there.

"Meret Denali? …She loved him once. But that was before she chose my father…that she loved Denali, that is… I suppose she's never done very well with men. " Kasan had blankly studied his step-mother's wan face, rambling as Basch tried to speak.

"He's dead though. Denali, I mean. Well, my father also… One now and the other then," Kasan had interrupted again. His own scrambled thoughts spilled out and ran over Basch's attempts to relate the tale.

Finally the words of both men were ended, and they drifted into uncomfortable silence as Kasan stood staring down at Haleine Ranel with bewildered, tired eyes.

Basch lingered a moment, turned his eyes away with regret before making to exit the chamber. "Noah." His voice was low, so as not to disturb the Archadian son who just now reached for his mother's limp hand.

A shadow was thrown across Noah's face, and his eyes shifted only a little Basch's way in response.

"Come." Basch nodded toward the exit.

Noah stood unmoving. His brow flexed slightly, and his eyes went from his brother to the Archadian. Finally he moved to follow Basch.

"Gabranth?" This time it was Kasan Ranel who spoke, and both men looked his way.

Noah felt Basch watching him warily. Kasan emerged from fatigue and sorrow to some part of understanding and tried again, "Noah?"

Basch's caution turned to surprise Basch at Kasan Ranel's familiar use of the name.

Noah's eyes went toward Basch and away. "Yes?"

Basch's chin rose and his brow lowered.

"Stay?" The Archadian son was spent. Even the act of breathing appeared forced and exhausting.

Noah shifted toward his brother. "Tarachande is tending Faolyn, Wulf _endures_ Imperial hospitality, and Larsa will be meeting with Zargabaath in preparation for the Senate. He will need you. You must be with him. I cannot." Noah presented his argument and left the rest unspoken. The remnants of his pride would not allow him to ask Basch's permit to remain.

Silently Basch acknowledged his brother's keen grasp of the young Emperor's needs, but wondered at the true motivation behind his words. "You should wash. Take some rest." He reviewed his brother's tattered, blood-stained rags. "You will want fresh garments. Inform the guard when you are ready to retire. I will see to the arrangements." In so saying Basch both gave his consent and set the boundaries of Noah's freedom.

Did Noah, Basch wondered, feel as displaced here as Basch himself when standing in the presence of Ashe and her newly selected Captain? He considered the young Dalmascan Captain's consternation at having the forerunner to his post walking freely about the Castle with increased sympathy. He could not very well demand Noah be confined to his quarters, but the alternative of constantly wondering where his brother was and what he was doing made Basch's stomach churn. He would have to rely upon Noah's loyalty to Larsa to keep him grounded.

"For Kasan as well." Noah interjected, solemnly watching the Archadian mother and son.

"Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course." Basch nodded, and then spoke with increased gravity, "Noah..."

Noah's eyes turned.

"Remember that you are Gabranth no longer… This arrangement will be made to look deceit if uncovered. What is meant to protect the peace must not be discovered and made a weapon against lord Larsa. Do we agree?"

"Aye. We agree." On this one point, if none other, they were truly united without contention.

Basch nodded, took a deep breath, and exited the chamber.

The door closed behind Basch, and the sound of his steps became instantly muted and quickly made silent. Kasan looked gratefully toward Noah, and then returned his eyes to his step-mother.

Noah looked without seeing.

…_Gabranth no longer…_

"_Remember, if they ask, you are Noah Gabranth. The name Gabranth meant something once in Archadia, and I am certain there are those who will recall. We will have friends who will give us shelter until this madness is past. …They must." The hope and thread of courage that strengthened her tone was tenuous and near breaking. She coughed. Her voice was weakened, strained with desperation, weariness, and illness. _

"_Yes, mother. I am sure you are right." Noah tried, for her sake, to banish sadness from his voice.  
His hands were busy with packing the last few valuables in their possession. Most had already been sold or bartered away for provisions. Gold and silver meant little when food and fresh water were so hard to come by, precious medicines all the more. _

_His mother took off the jeweled chain that rarely left her neck and tucked it into a drawstring bag, handing it then to her son. Noah in turn carefully buried the item in the depths of the satchel he prepared. This was one thing she could not part with._

_The necklace had been a gift from Eben fon Ronsenburg to his wife upon his final happy homecoming. He had beamed with pride as he placed it around her neck, and she had grasped his hand and danced about the room with delight. The brothers had rolled their eyes and buried their faces in embarrassment at their parents' adolescent behavior, but they too had been pleased to witness their happiness. _

_Noah pushed the pouch into a hidden opening in the lining. There also were to be found a few gold coins he had managed to save along with some maps that might prove useful...just in case she was wrong and they were refused. _

_They dared not journey with items of value in plain sight. Thieves had become rampant these days, either driven mad by the conflict and loss or made greedy and bold at the sight of weakened defenses and unguarded tills. They were taking a great risk in venturing out, but staying was a risk greater with her health… The daily stress and harsh living conditions were taking a toll…_

_As he secreted the remaining treasure away, Noah thought of his father, lying in the cold ground beneath the shade of an ancient tree. The tree, once tall with branches outstretched and upturned, was now broken. The trunk had been snapped by an errant strike that lit the nearby field ablaze. The top now lay sprawling over the grave as if to give cover from the storm or to hide the eyes of the dead from the sight of the devastation._

…_What would his father say?_

_It was as if she heard his thoughts. Or perhaps only it was that they were also her own. "Your father would understand. He would not ask, or I think even desire that we should linger." He could sense she had debated the subject many times alone. "The Archadian Empire has always been ambitious… I do wish that Landis had been spared… But whatever the reason or the answer to this conflict, I know also that Archadia is home to many good people; people who care for their loved ones, and want only good for their families. They are no different than you or me. We must not blame the many for the sins of a few." She sighed and nodded, as if satisfied with this answer, and continued on. "I was born a daughter of Archadia. They will not turn us away. We will find refuge. We will outlast this trouble."_

"_Yes, mother." Noah's spoke softly, but offered a brave smile that wavered only a little. Inside he was not certain. His mother could claim Gabranth and the Empire, but fon Ronsenburg and Landis were all he had ever known. _

_The Empire of Archadia…even the sound of it was imposing and stern. _

_It was hard to believe any of this was real…  
_

_Noah walked through rooms cluttered with what was once important but was now cast away, climbed up the steps, and crossed the hallway to the room he'd shared for so many years with his twin. He could hear the laughter echo off the walls. He could see his brother's face in the shadows there. _

_How had it come to this? _

_Blinking away unwelcome dampness, Noah sat down upon his brother's bed and reached for the reed flute that lay on the nightstand. Basch had taken very little with him except for the sword his father had left._

_Desperate hope whispered.  
Maybe Basch would come back...  
Fear answered.  
What if Basch came back to find none there to greet him?  
Anger pushed hope and fear away.  
If Basch wanted to go, let him stay gone. _

…_Noah's fist clenched around the thin reed…  
It still hurt to remember..._

_He had awakened late the morning after Basch had set out. She had let him oversleep; probably to avoid the scene that would come soon enough. She had sat silently, letting him ramble about where might be a likely place to search for supplies that day, and had smiled gently as he stuffed a dry, stale corn muffin into his mouth on the way out the door. His offhand question of, "Where is Basch? Did he already go?" had caused his mother's hand to become unsteady, and made her turn away. _

"_Yes, he has already gone, Noah." How quietly she'd spoken the words._

"_Heh. He shouldn't have gone without me. It's a mess out there," Noah had scorned his twin's judgment, thinking to himself that "bloody dangerous" was more like it. It was better for them to stick together if they didn't want to end up shot for their boots. Even in their own house they could not feel truly safe. But he didn't want to worry her. "Did he take the goods with him?" They planned to try to barter a few remaining items. Probably not. "Last one up carries the stuff," Noah had said last time Basch slept in a few extra minutes. Basch would pay him back for that now. _

"_Noah…" She had risen slowly from her chair, and her steps were unsteady as she moved toward him. He could see the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Fear raced to his heart. _

"_What is it?" Protectively he had put his hands upon her thin shoulders. How oblivious and naïve he had been… _

"_You must understand."_

"_Understand what, Mother?" When he rubbed her arms as if to warm them he did so because he needed something to do with his hands. _

_She had bent her neck to look up to her son. Along with his brother, Noah had become tall and sinewy with growing; twin saplings shooting upward, young and slender and strong. His body had not yet filled out to compensate for the height. That would come later. He was still a boy and yet also a man. Tears had come to her eyes as she viewed him, and her voice had broken when she spoke. "Basch… has gone."_

_And he had not been able to speak, instead simply shaking his head in question. His chest had burned as panic squeezed the air from his lungs. _

"…_To join the defense of Dalmasca, Noah. He has gone. Do you understand?"_

_His hands had left her shoulders like his fingers were burned, and he had recoiled as if she had become a dangerous thing. "What?" _

"_It was his decision to make. We must let him go, and pray for his safe return. It…it is all we can do." Her voice had broken, but no tears came. She had spent them all praying for her young warrior son's safety throughout the long night._

"_What?" Surely, Noah had thought, surely he was still sleeping. Surely…_

"_He felt it was safer for him to go at night."_

_His fists had clenched as anger rose to protect him from hurt.  
Safer?!  
Easier!  
Coward! _

"_Noah." Her distress was compounded for his sake. "You don't have to stay for me." She had put on a brave face, and cupped his lean cheek in the palm of her hand. "If you would rather join your brother, go, and do not worry. I'll find another way. It will be okay."_

"_I won't leave you." There was no question in his voice or in his mind, and for her sake he muted the bitterness he felt from his tone. "Basch has made his decision and I make mine. I already have something to fight for. I don't have to go looking." _

_Her eyes had spoken her gratitude. _

_He had wanted no witness to his suffering, and had walked out the door without another word, waiting until he was out of her sight to break into a reckless, blind run.  
She had not seen him drowning in hot tears of rage and retching on hurt. She had not been there when at last he had dropped, exhausted and miles away, to the torn ground of a stranger's abandoned field. He had returned that night, bloodied and bruised and weary, with little to show for his long day; he had forgotten to even take the goods to trade._

_He had seen it in her eyes…the relief that he had come back, and had known that though he had given his word still she had wondered. _

_From down the bottom of the stairwell she called to him, and Noah looked around the room one last time. _

_He would not say goodbye. Still, at the last moment he tucked the reed flute into the satchel, and carefully packed up a few of his brother's things. …Just in case. _

_And then it was their turn to set out in the dead of night, pressed beside an elderly couple in the back of a Chocobo-drawn wagon like chattel, leaving his childhood home vacant and lonely. She had reached for his hand and whispered, "Someday, when this trouble has passed, we will be together again." _

_Through the proclamation of hope he had heard the doubt. By moonlight he had looked into her eyes and seen the shadow creeping in. The same shadow crept to the corners of his heart. _

_Against his leg was strapped the matching dagger to the sword his brother had taken.  
He had only one family, and of it she alone remained. He would not desert her._

_It had not gone as planned, their bartered passage. Their saviors proved brigands instead. The bandits, who had already taken more than their passengers could afford to arrange the journey, had planned to rob them of what little they had left, taunting the women with threats of abuse and the elderly gentleman and boy with promises of death._

_… It was the first time he'd ever had to kill a man. He'd not known until she was in peril that he could._

"Noah?" Kasan's weary voice broke through the layers of memory, and Noah went to stand beside the son of the man who had welcomed his mother like a long-lost sister and given them shelter when there was none.

Basch was wrong. Though the title of Judge Magister was gone, as long as memory of her remained, and as long as there were promises left to keep, Gabranth would be part of him.


	36. Providence and Misfortune

"You will do this. You will do this, sister." He stroked her face with his shaking hand. His eyes lost focus and dimming and then flashed with bright intensity in the next moment, much like a flame about to go out.

"We must bide our time. Remember our father's patience and your own for these long months." She cradled his head in her lap, viewing the smoldering horizon with concern. "If we act unwisely, we will jeopardize all our father died for. We must carry on." Ciel pleaded with her brother for reason, but reason had scattered with the power that had left him.

"I will see our father's murderer bloodied and torn, sister." Tears coated his eyes, and the pulsing light now shimmered as if under glass. "I will see him shamed and begging for mercy!"

"Shhh…" She bent to kiss his brow.

He tried to rise and she gently held him until his raging ceased. "Our father will be remembered, Ciel…" He was faltering now, his body going limp under her hands. His eyes began to close. "We will make them remember, Ciel. Our father's murderer will pay…"

* * *

"…with others like her."

The door opened, signaling a return of the physician, and the murmured words ceased.

Kasan watched distantly as the healer checked Haleine's life-signs.

"Kasan"

Kasan turned with blank expression toward Noah, blinked to clear the fog for a moment, and nodded. "Of course."

Noah stood a moment longer, his gaze falling once more upon the pale lady stricken upon the bed.

The door opened, a few short words were offered in a tone gruffer than his norm, and the Emperor's guest left with his assigned security detail.

Kasan stood and turned as the doctor examined Haleine. She was a proud woman and coveted her privacy. Likely she'd be both mortified and incensed to know he was here. But where else could he be?

Kasan leaned against the cool wall and rested his eyes.

_"…good for your son to be with you, Inar. Good for you also. You should bring him with you more often." She coughed heavily. The sound of it was painful._

_"Oh, I know, Delara. …Here, take a sip… You were always wise and so very often right."_

_"Only often?" The lady had not altogether lost her sense of humor, but the moment of affectionate laughter between friends was cut short as her wracking cough resumed. _

_Inar's voice was fraught with melancholy. " If I had come by your sense and strength perhaps I'd have avoided this disgrace."_

_Eleven year old Kasan reached for the next branch higher and pulled himself away from the window and the hurtful words. He knew his father had brought him today only because his sick friend had asked to meet his son. It stung like a lash to hear his father's shame…as always it did. _

_Inar had inspected Kasan meticulously before allowing the boy to accompany him on his visit. The elder Ranel rarely ever looked at his son, and the boy had nervously wondered if his father liked what he saw. Did the father notice that the son was starting to grow taller? The hope that he did straightened the boy's back and pulled him to the last measure of his height. Whatever Inar had seen made him shake his head with a regretful sigh. But then the surprising gift of a kite had almost erased the pain caused by the disappointment found in the father's eyes. _

_"Something to busy yourself with while I visit," his father had said as he placed the colorful kite into his sons hands. "Lady Gabranth is very ill, and you cannot interrupt and be a bother to her. I will introduce you, you will be polite and respectful, and then you will retire to the garden and wait until I call, understand?"_

_"Yes, sir." Despite the words that ordered distance, Kasan had been overwhelmed at being given the chance to spend the day with his father. Receiving now a gift as well made him impulsively want to throw his arms around his father and claim the love that should be his._

_ Haleine at that moment walked through the room, her eyes passing by the boy altogether and cutting toward her husband like razors. _

_Inar stiffened uncomfortably and frowned at the boy who stood with wide, dark eyes before him. "Go on outside and wait." _

_The door had muffled but not been able to keep inside her anger and his father's deflection.  
"…trying to embarrass me?"  
"...not my idea to take the boy, Haleine…"_

_Kasan had heard the bitter fights when his father had taken it upon himself to loan out the home that had been his and Haleine's first before they had moved into the Ranel family home upon the death of Inar's father. Haleine had raged that they could ill afford to be giving out charity when they were losing profit at every turn, but Inar had for once turned a deaf ear. The bitterness and chill had become so thick it was in the air Kasan breathed…_

_But the kite was beautiful. …And now caught in the top of the single towering tree that occupied the meager garden…_

_Kasan stretched and reached and tugged gently, trying to dislodge the colorful tail without ripping the body of the kite. Growing, maybe he was, but he was still too short. His arms weren't long enough. _

_Kasan looked down and felt a touch of fear. He hadn't been this far up before, and still he was not high enough. He looked up and ignored the warning that blared in his mind. He pulled himself to the next branch, stretched to full height, and dared to balance on his tip-toes . That was when his foot slipped and lost purchase on the branch. His right hand managed to catch and hold to the limb, wrenching his shoulder as the bark cut his palm._

_"Oh! Hey! Be careful, kid!" An alarmed voice suddenly rang out below._

_Kasan looked down, his vision blurring as he dangerously swayed, and vaguely it seemed he recognized the boy as someone who ran errands for his father. _

_"Hold on!" Kasan heard a clatter and then within moments someone had reached the spot and was trying to ease him down. _

_"Wait! My kite." Gifts from his father were too infrequent to be casually abandoned. Kasan resisted with every fiber of his being the idea of leaving the unsolicited present from Inar Ranel behind. _

_"Let's get you down first."_

_"No, please…" Kasan felt tears choke him. He fought them, not wanting to be a baby in front of the older boy. _

_"It's okay…Kasan, is it?" _

_"Uh-huh." The boy was a bit surprised that anyone knew his name._

_" I'm Noah. Don't worry; your kite's not going anywhere. Look at that tail, all tangled up there. How did you manage that on a calm day such as this?" The older boy's voice was carefully light. Kasan smiled gratefully and accepted the help, relieved when his feet finally touched ground. _

_"Why don't we go inside and get you cleaned up? Your arm okay? Your hands are bleeding." Noah frowned as he looked Kasan over._

_"I'm okay. Thank you." Kasan was suddenly shy. _

_Noah smiled and nodded, but he looked unconvinced. "Sure. Look, why don't you go on in the back door? Your father is visiting with my mother in the front of the house. They won't know you came in. I'll join you in a second. We'll get you cleaned up, and keep you out of trouble." Noah winked, and Kasan smiled tentatively, thinking about how angry Haleine would be if she saw him now. _

_Kasan followed Noah's direction and went on inside to busy himself with rubbing stains from his new clothes. Minutes later Noah walked through the back door, delivering the kite as if the task had been no effort. _

_As they'd worked at repairing the kite string and Kasan's wounds, the sound of Lady Gabranth's violent cough echoed through the walls. Kasan had seen the grim sadness on the older boy's face, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes and the paleness of his skin. _

_And soon Inar Ranel's voice had carried from the yard, "Kasan! Kasan! Where is that boy?" _

_Kasan had left with the kite in hand, his skinned hands and dirt stained clothing refurbished enough that he was not questioned by the father who preferred not to notice._

_ It was the first time that Noah Gabranth had come to his defense._

"Kasan?"

It took him a moment to place the weak voice calling, but a weight lifted as he saw his step-mother's eyes open and upon him. He crossed to her side and reached for her hand. For a moment, he felt her thinned fingers tighten on his. Then she frowned and pulled her hand away. Her voice shook a little as she scolded him. "Filthy and unkempt, as always."

Kasan sighed and smiled. It seemed Haleine had survived unchanged.

* * *

Noah remained silent as he was escorted to the suite Judge Magister Gabranth had allotted for his use. If the soldiers were made curious by the shadowed, hooded figure they led, they did not show it. But then these were Imperial warriors.

He nodded as the heavy doors to his assigned rooms were opened before him. The soldiers withdrew, the doors closed, and Noah drew a deep breath as he removed the cloak that had kept him shielded.

Having denied himself the instinctive desire for sleep in favor of bathing away the blood that stained his skin and the Dalmascan sand irritating his wounds, Noah stood before the mirrored glass and grimly beheld his garish reflection. The hair he'd stained black with the inky secretion taken from glands of a night flyer was tangled and matted and beginning to fade. His beard had grown in more since he'd last applied the substance and was now a strange mix of natural blond, dirt brown, dyed black, and blood-stained red. He was sure if he cared to look closely enough, he'd also find a silver hair or two-or more. The attempted disguise was now more likely to draw attention than to help him remain inconspicuous. On the other hand, he scoffed, it was unlikely that he'd be recognized as Judge Magister Gabranth or mistaken for Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg. And then his focus changed.

The high-polished black marble that lined the room created a reflective surface of its own, allowing him to see Faolyn's mark upon his skin with clarity in the mirror. His brow furrowed as he stared intently at the softly glowing lines, and then he turned to continue his routine.

Kasan's disclosure weighed heavily upon him. Before the Dalmascan throne, he had vowed that Faolyn was no danger to anyone, and he would not hesitate to give his life defending the boy against any who would charge otherwise. Still, with the boy now safely removed from the Dalmascan threat, he could admit that the Queen's questions were valid. He had felt the boy's wild power. The boy was good of heart and did not wish to bring harm. …What if ever he did wish it?

Of more immediate importance to Ivalice, what of the girl Kasan had spoken of? And what of the group she had attached herself to?

The implication given by the girl was that the group acted independently of a particular government. Meret Denali's involvement said nothing one way or another. The man had been a fool and a narcissist. But then there was Dimas. Dimas was a more violent brand of the same type of man. That either man would wish to use the other and barter for a place of power did not surprise. It was wealth, or lack of, that divided them. Where Meret had been blessed with his own coin to invest, Dimas was beholden to Rozarria and his position as General for investment capital. Was Rozarria itself leading this activity as a ruse? It would not be a new tactic, to stir up the people and cause a split that would create opportunity. Both Rozarria and Archadia had used the maneuver to their advantage many times in the past. Distrust and dissent were easy seeds to sow. Light a spark and watch the world burn. As Gabranth, Noah knew something of that.

The bath was filled, and Noah lowered his body into the warmth. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief, letting his head recline against the polished stone as his legs extended. In his weariness came a confession: It had been a long year. Immediately his mind jumped back to the hour of his flight from Landis with his mother. The familiar ache spread, and his fingers reached to his chest to scratch at a wound he could not reach and a pain he could not ease. …An endless year.

* * *

"You expect us to believe that the attack on our borders was not the work of Dalmasca?" The Senator threw up his hands in exasperation. Word of the incident had spread from the people and more details had been carried by handsomely rewarded private informers.

"You have my word, Senator. The threat that we face threatens also our _ally_ Dalmasca. In this cause, the Empire has Dalmasca's vow of support. As proof of our strong alliance in this matter, the Dalmascan guard is even now working with our Imperial forces to secure the border. This danger is shared, and Queen Ashelia and I are united in our common goal of rooting out the perpetrators and restoring peace and security to our peoples."

Basch listened as the young Emperor spoke, noting the exceptions Larsa built into his statement. _This cause. This matter. This danger._ He watched also the Senators' reactions to Larsa's words. There was a conflicted spirit in the room. Despite the argumentative nature of business in the Empire and the sometimes precarious balance of power, the Senators had ample stake in the security of the nation. They might wish to show strength by forcing Dalmasca's hand, but they did not wish to be taken off guard by a new enemy in their desire to punish Dalmasca for its rebellious and costly survival in the recent war.

"We doubt neither the quality of your word, my Emperor, nor your noble purpose." Senator Soleine's smooth tones breached the clatter. Her manner was neither condescending nor insincere, but there was a cautioning glint in her eye and the long fingers of one hand pointed contemplatively toward her bottom lip. "The word of Dalmasca is another thing altogether, my Lord. Your Excellency graciously deigned to journey to Dalmasca to speak with its leader. It might have been helpful toward understanding the Dalmascan position had the Dalmascan Queen felt compelled to show the same concern toward the Empire."

"The solidarity of our nations in this mission is unwavering." _This mission. "_Dalmasca's Queen remains to pursue our shared interests. However, although Queen Ashelia could not appear before you, she has sent to us a representative of the throne to speak on her behalf." Larsa lifted a hand, and Wulf stepped stiffly forward. "Queen Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca's trusted knight and chosen envoy, Ambassador Wulf Hadriel."

Wulf's face, pale and chilled from the panic of having to face the Senate, flushed scarlet with heat as Larsa praised him with words of honor and trust. His eyes scanned the imposing chamber, unfamiliar faces, and austere garb, and he felt a nauseous wave shake him to the core.

"We have heard that Dalmasca shares the Empire's concerns regarding this new threat. Is this so, Ambassador?"

Wulf cleared his throat. "Yes. Her Majesty wishes those responsible found and dealt with in all haste."  
Could Ashe have designed a more cruel punishment for him than to ask him to entreat for favor with those who had destroyed all he loved?

"And is Dalmasca prepared to share the burden as well?"

The carnage played again in his mind, and the faces of the Senators swam in a crimson sea. "Dalmasca understands sacrifice." His chin lifted and the pale chill returned, but he clenched his fists and swallowed the bitterness that swelled in his throat. "Dalmasca stands with the Empire in this cause. She is ready to do what must be done."

For Ashe…for Rasler's Ashe, he would play the part assigned.

"And what of Meret Denali?"

Beneath his heavy armor and the obscurity of helm and cloak, Basch could not suppress the slightest spontaneous flexing of his muscles in reaction to the surprise he felt at the Senator's query. Wulf visibly betrayed being startled. His eyes widened and he flinched. "Meret Denali, Senator?"

"I would caution you not to play coy, Ambassador Hadriel." Senator Soleine interrupted her colleague with a warning tilt of the head toward the Dalmascan spokesman. "Secrets are difficult to keep, and word has come to us of an attack upon one of own citizens perpetrated by your countryman."

"Not _my_ countryman," was his silent gut reaction, but then he was ashamed. As had Rasler, he would take Dalmasca's burdens as his own. "I'm afraid the Senator is better informed than I." His surprise was gone, and a touch of cynicism now laced his hardened tone.

The corners of the Senator's lips lifted softly, but her eyes turned toward a new speaker. "Do I understand you to say that the Dalmascan throne has no knowledge of Meret Denali? That the Dalmascan throne did not petition for his release?"

"I have no such knowledge, but Dalmasca has many citizens in Archadian care. It is certainly the Kingdom's wish to see all swiftly and fairly judged."

Senator Soleine, listening carefully, smiled fleetingly at the choice phrasing. "I am told that Master Denali has met with misfortune."

Almost Wulf scoffed aloud. _Misfortune._ Yes, that was an apt banner for the Kingslayer to fly under. He remained emotionless and silent, giving only a vacant stare in return to the Senator's study.

"You can surely understand, Ambassador, why we pursue this line of question. It is troubling to hear of this first attack, to then see our peaceful citizens turned away from Dalmascan soil, and then to be brought word of an eruption of violence, resulting in Archadian casualties, upon the border. You can surely see how it must appear."

Larsa stepped forward, fists clenched. Basch moved more closely to the young Emperor, and though he could not interfere, his presence was a calming force. Larsa leveled a gaze at the Senators but held his tongue, letting the painful but necessary process play through.

"Yes." Wulf lifted his chin fiercely. "Yes, I do. But believe me, Senator; Dalmasca has more reason to distrust and more to lose if Emperor Larsa proves false."

For a moment Basch's chest tightened as he wondered if Wulf's temper and tongue would overrule wisdom and duty.

An indignant murmur spread through the chamber. They might question their leader, but it was another thing to have him maligned by a stranger in their court.

Wulf continued. "When Emperor Larsa entered Dalmasca with an escort of Imperial guard and approached the Throne Room with a Judge Magister at his side, my Queen did not deny him. And yet Her Majesty has sent me to stand before you today with only the word of Emperor Larsa that I will be treated as a friend. I trust my Queen's judgment. I place my life in her hands. I bow to her will."

The Senators were unified in silence. Senator Soleine viewed the warrior spokesman thoughtfully. A small, grim smile graced her face.

"Ambassador Wulf." Larsa held out his hand somberly. Wulf nodded respectfully as he pressed the Imperial hand, but he did not bow or lift the fingers to his lips in sign of submission and fealty. His allegiance was owed elsewhere.

* * *

Ashe reached without thought to turn the band, the heirloom reminder of the last son of the royal house of Nabradia. There were moments almost each day when the ring was removed and set aside, and yet it always returned. Someday it might leave her hand forever. But the time was not now. Today she yet needed the comfort of a sweet memory.

_ "Ashelia?" _

_She turned from the balcony, feeling a flush of warmth. The date of their marriage vows, settled upon between their fathers and the advisors of both kingdoms, was nearing. Their marriage was a contract between Kingdoms, a binding union of their two royal lines. Of the young couple, submission to duty was all that was asked. Love was not expected. And yet tenderness had bloomed. Perhaps indeed because each the other understood… _

_His eyes in a boyish face had looked down at her with gentle concern. He was full of sincerity, spirit, and determination. His youthful enthusiasm had been tempered by responsibility, and yet he was driven and not cowed by the weight of his place. Still, she felt his uncertainty and hesitation when their eyes met. And within her heart she felt the same. _

_He watched her silently for a long moment and reached out to brush back a stray lock of her hair. His hand went on to her cheek and slipped down to her lips. And then his eyes blinked as if he had just awakened. His fingers pulled back as if they had touched coals, but it was his fair cheeks that blushed red with warmth. "Forgive me, Ashelia. I do not expect..." He broke off in embarrassment and looked away, distraught. _

_She felt a wave of understanding and reached out to take his hand, pressing her lips softly against his palm. _

_He turned her chin upward, looking with question into her eyes. "I do not expect…but…I hope."_

_A single tear had caressed her cheek, and his fingertips had eased it away. "I understand, Princess."_

_"Rasler…" The words slipped quietly through her lips as his fingers again made his way there. "Hope. And let us not be lonely."_

_And if they were lonely, they were lonely together.  
Theirs had been a gentle love. A love that comforted each the other's heart against what was missing there. A love that supported and upheld each the other's courage in the face of unyielding duty. _

_So brief was their time. And it felt still as if she had not given place to fully grieve his passing…  
Surely he deserved something more. _

_Was this why the Occuria had found his visage such an easy vessel for their schemes? Did they know the guilt of love unfulfilled and grief unsatisfied?_

_…If only she had given him a child to solidify the union of their Kingdoms and carry on his name… _

_How many had died to protect her brothers, heirs of her father's throne? And yet they had been cut down, one by one even to the last. How many had died to protect the sons of Nabradia, and still Rasler's fall had ended the line. Larsa too was the last of his House. …To be an heir to rule was to be marked for death, and the fields were littered with the bones of those who had fought to protect and fought to bring about the demise of a line. A child would have only been made a target for the Empire and likely would not have survived the war. _

_It wasn't only fear for her child's future that had made her resist when the subject of an heir had been breached by the advisers of both Kingdoms. She had not been ready. Rasler had understood…had he not?_

_"Rasler, I…" _

_"Do not let their words trouble you. They are brazen in their eagerness." He put his arms around her and she let her head rest against his shoulder. "We will have time." _

_She heard the doubt in his voice though she could not see it in his eyes. _

_"…We will have time." _

_A tender, hopeful lie.  


* * *

  
_

_"Your Honor…" _

_Zargabaath did not waver in his step or turn his eyes aside. "Knight Gracien, well you know that personal affections and emotional attachments must not be allowed to interfere with the business of the Empire." The memory of Dame Drace's broken body came to his mind, and he heard his own desperate plea in her defense. Unashamed to entreat for mercy on her behalf, he had yielded to the will of the Law and carried the shame of her sentence to join that found on the mount of Bur-Omisace. Was it not an irony that bonds so difficult to forge in days of conflict were so swiftly by the same brought to an end, severed by the sword? _

_Dax's lips opened and closed again. His features smoothed, and his eyes hardened as he resolved himself. "Yes, Lord Zargabaath." _

_Only when Dax had parted from the Judge Magister did Zargabaath's long stride hesitate. Lonnan Pryderi's young, pregnant wife even now sat beside him, holding his hand and urging him through tears and prayers to live. Zargabaath had despaired at playing witness to the tender grief and had, as soon as was seemly, departed the scene. Messengers would come to report any changes in the officer's status. _

_ Gracien would be leading a team to the scene of the incident. Would he find evidence that the young soldier Zargabaath suspected was indeed the cause of this disturbance? It grated Zargabaath's nerves and vexed his patience to think he had not seen the truth, but then the soldier's treachery was not all he had lately missed. _

_Zargabaath's pace stretched and his chin lifted, the only signs of his annoyance and indignation. _

_He had become accustomed to the point of numbness to the deceptions at every turn during his days in the service of Lord Gramis and Lord Vayne. Lord Larsa's rule kept its own deceits. No matter. He would not again be taken aback by the trickery of this new day. Despite all, there were certain things that did not change and would not while he was there to see to it. Zargabaath's forehead creased sternly. If the soldier was responsible, by the Law, Aramis Macall would pay.  


* * *

_

_"There are things a Judge Magister must know." Zecht wiggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Isn't that right, Drace?"_

_Drace glared back at him, but then sighed heavily and put a hand on Noah's elbow. He was surprised by the touch. "The asinine behavior aside, Zecht is correct. There are secrets hidden within these walls, Gabranth, and it is our sacred duty to keep them. Understand?"_

_"Yes." …No, he didn't. Still, he nodded. It seemed the thing to do, and he was certain the information he was supposed to now understand was soon to be explored. He was right. _

_"These secrets belonged to our fathers before us." _

_Not his father._

_As Drace spoke solemnly, Zecht walked alongside him, gesturing grandly in time to her words._

_"Only the protectors of House Solidor are privy to this knowledge. With our lives, we defend them." Zecht clutched at his chest. "With our discretion we provide them safety." Zecht crept along furtively."We must never betray the trust we are given." Zecht grasped the hilt of his sword and stood to attention._

_Distracted, Noah missed his cue and was rewarded with a sound rap to the ribs. "We must not betray the trust-"_

_"Drace. He gets it." Zecht had tired of playing. He waved off her argument and draped a muscled arm over Noah's shoulders. "Emperor Gramis has given him his trust. That ought to be good enough for you and me." And then he turned to Gabranth with a warning grin. "But it won't be, so don't get any ideas, eh?" Zecht laughed. "Come, Gabranth. Let me show you what the Palace hides beneath her skirts."_

_Drace knocked Zecht to his knees with a well placed blow and walked past indifferently. Noah grimaced as Zecht stared up at him, eyes tearing. "You're-no-lady-Drace." Zecht gasped and groaned._

_"And you'll not be a man unless you learn to keep your tongue behind your teeth." She walked past them to the wall._

_Zecht reached out a hand, and Noah grasped it, helping him up. Zecht noted Drace and directed Noah's attention. "You'll want to see this, Gabranth."_

_Drace moved her hand over the stone and spoke a word foreign to Noah's ears. An emblem, the emblem of House Solidor, appeared. As the seal was removed, a grinding noise filled the air: the sound of gears and bolts and stone shifting. A section of the wall pulled back and opened to a gaping black hole. _

_"Come." Drace motioned to them and stepped into the void. _

_Noah gasped, and Zecht laughed. "Well, you heard the vixen. Let's go." Suddenly recovered, he pushed Noah ahead of him and caught him as Noah stumbled down the dark stairwell. _

As he walked the path now, it was as if he could hear Drace's voice directed them and Zecht's laughter echoing off the stone. Noah's lips turned to a half-smile. He missed them. Though the words could not change the fate that had taken them, he could say it freely now. It was lonelier here with them gone.  
He made his way along the secret routes of the Palace and emerged in a secluded part of the city.  
Regret momentarily darkened his brow as he gathered around him the heavy steel gray cloak that Basch had been kind enough to include in his wardrobe. He pulled the hood up to cover his freshly cleansed hair. "Forgive me, Basch, but if you mean to have me confined, you'll have to build a stronger cage."


	37. Walk With Me

She sighed with longing at the sight of Archadia, drinking in the lights as lanterns of home. Strings of her golden hair lifted in the cool breeze, and tears of relief sparkled like stars in her eyes as they looked beyond the haggard prodigals in line ahead of them, past the obdurate guards set before the impenetrable gate, to find a familiar face. She squeezed Noah's shoulder briefly and whispered as she brushed by, "We're among friends now, my son. We'll be safe here."

_The dark haired gentleman finished speaking to the soldier, reclaimed the papers that caused the guard to nod his approval, and moved toward them. Delara met him eagerly to accept the comfort of welcome as one who returns to shelter after a long journey. They embraced warmly, and the handsomely dressed man removed his long brushed-wool frock coat to wrap about her thin shoulders as he led her inside. _

_As the massive gates fully parted with the rattle and clank of metal and stone, bars and gears, Noah stood frozen in place just outside. As others pled for entry and looked with yearning at safety so near, Noah's widened eyes followed his mother through the gaping metal jaws and into the dark, mysterious expanse beyond. His sight was guided as if by force to the towering architecture that jutted upward. His chest clenched as he beheld the forbidding grandeur of the Empire. The lit windows, like a million eerily glowing balls of flame, sparked against the blackened sky, daring him to come near. _

"_Go on, boy." A heavy, armored hand moved him when his feet would not, and the gates clanked with cold finality behind. _

"_Come, Noah."Her voice called to him, and he looked to see her face peering from the open door of a small air-taxi. She patted the seat beside her and smiled encouragingly. He felt like such a child. Inar Ranel nodded politely and secured the door as Noah took his assigned place. The glossair ring glowed, the shuttle hummed and lifted, and Noah shuddered violently as if part of him had been tethered and torn away below._

The prism of late afternoon light reflected upon countless panes of glass as Noah lifted his eyes. The patch of blue o're head was broken by the movement of clouds, the cast of towering buildings, and the sporadic interruption of traffic as airships of various shapes and sizes littered the sky.

Though still many structures within the octagonal bounds of the Imperial City maintained their traditional form and held nearer to the earth, the years had seen the horizon pierced by increasingly ambitious construction. The flow of small airships o're head carried to heights unreachable by others those whose measure of wealth or importance had purchased them their lofty place.

How would Faolyn react to awakening here?

He could still remember the fear that had raced through his heart at first sight of this place. He'd seen nothing of its kind in his young days. The representations in text books had been small and flat and lifeless, and neither the tales his father had shared from his travels nor his mother's sentimental recollections had prepared him for the scale or gravity.

Would Tarachande, Jolon to Larsa, be able to comfort the child against the grand and ominous specter that was the Empire to young, unaccustomed eyes?

The comfort and peace his mother had been offered in the arms of the Empire had been denied him. He had first sensed and then come to accept the darkness in the depths, lurking like an ancient beast in the water's deep. More faintly in the absence of Vayne, but even now, Noah could feel the pulsing beneath the surface. The watcher yet prowled there. What fresh sacrifice would it demand? Who would become its prey?

Noah looked at the shadow for a marker of time. He could not be long away… He shivered under a sudden chill, but the cool was on his cheek and not only in his soul. The seasons were changing again…

"_What's it like out there?" Their mother's voice carried from the kitchen. Her voice was eager. _

"_Wet and cold." Eben fon Ronsenburg muttered, uncharacteristically dour. _

"_Well, I think it's lovely." Delara smiled wistfully. "It was snowing on the streets of the Imperial City when we met." Her voice took a pensive quality. "You didn't seem to mind so then." _

_Eben fon Ronsenburg rose to meet his wife. "Glad was I for it, beloved." He looked long into her eyes and kissed her forehead. "And still am I."_

_With only the light of the fireplace behind them and the swirling white of the falling snow before, they had as a family stood at the window together that night. Noah and Basch, impatient for the morn, when they might adventure out into the white, had occupied themselves by using their fingers to draw pictures into the frost on the glass and by pressing their noses against the frigid pane. Their parents had watched on, nested comfortably together in a warm, contented embrace._

"_It's the cold," Eben had stared out into the frigid night as he spoke to all and none, "that drives a man in for the warmth." He had rested his chin lightly against the top of his wife's head, and catching Noah's eye, had winked and reached out to affectionately tousle unruly, blond hair before giving to Basch the same treatment. "Someday, my boys, you won't want to run out into the storm. Someday, you'll look for a harbor and be glad of a shelter against the cold."_

That which clenched in Noah's chest might have been called loneliness when the feeling was new. He had refused himself then the privilege of defining the ache, and it had been with him so long now that he only sometimes noticed a change in the strength of the unnamed current. Love and loneliness and pain: Were they not the same?

Stray shards of broken sunlight and scraps of wayward warmth contended with heavy veils of gray and damp washes of cool as he fell in and out of shadow.

He had felt the chill and his mother the warmth, but her relief had been his, and he had learned the Empire's ways...

The path that he took seemed to lack direction, but there was purpose in his wandering. He had thought to never return, and that he had been given chance put upon him a call he could not but heed. The majestic Imperial Archadian Mausoleum housed the deceased of the Solidor family in cold splendor, appropriate for a household whose members had too often sent one of their own to death and then fought to see which next would join the last. Inside the noble hall of warriors rested Dame Drace, honored with a place among the worthy and unworthy of the fallen Elite. There were proud memorials in visible places set to boast the accomplishments of the departed members of Archadian families of means. His aim was none of these.

The quiet haven to which Noah came was shaded by twisted, knotted trees. The rough stone of the surrounding wall bore thick vines, and the weathered markers within were in entangled in ivy. It was an afterthought of more humble days, remaining only for the cause of not disturbing the dead of elder families whose names once held weight. Families like Ranel.

Noah had not asked then why Master Ranel had made preparations for her final rest in this place and not with her own kindred. He had come to know later on that death in the Gabranth line had been for generations observed in fire and ash. That had not been Eben fon Ronsenburg's way, and Delara had spoken of no wish for such ritual. Noah was forever grateful that Inar, for all his faults and failings with his own family, had shown such kindness as to allow a place to lay his friend to rest and had not sent her to scatter lost upon the wind, displaced as she had been and her seed remained.

…In the blackest hours throughout his years as Judge Magister, hours when he had listed toward the macabre in the deepest dungeons of his mind, Noah had considered with a dark glint whether his own demise might be the one to reinstitute the fiery traditions cut off with the end of his mother's sire. He had morbidly judged the same to be a fitting end for a life bound to duty but belonging to none.

He had bowed his head and his knee and his will to duty, and through the years, he had given his blood to the Empire's cause. With every yielding of his spirit, with every crimson drop that drained into those steel veins, the ghostly grip on his soul increased. There had come a time when he knew that though he might not yet belong, he now belonged _to_. There had been a night, battle weary and heart sore, when he had looked at his blood stained reflection in the mirror of the blade he polished and had known that he was not free. He had known as much that the Empire would never give him up peaceably.

It was not lost on him now that if the pyre had proved his fate, neither Gramis's strategic planning nor Faolyn's gifts could have returned him to this plane...

Inanimate greeters peered down through empty eyes and expressions of frozen sympathy as Noah walked under the arched entryway. He moved through the green garden, passing stone after rough stone in neat order. The few trees cast shadows over the lawn. The grass was dark and mellow. The air was cool and moist. It felt as it should.

His visits here had become further stretched apart over the years. The shadow had clung too heavily to his feet, and he had not wanted to bring her his grief. Still, he had come yearly to mark the day up until... And then he had come no more. He had not been able to bear bringing before her his shame and his brother's cries. But those eyes that had become hidden from him, he was certain they knew.

Once in loss he had clung to hope that his brother would come, and he had not. When hope turned to hurt and then to anger, he had willed Basch away, guarding this pain with a flaming sword. Now again Noah found he could begin to hope that his brother had come to her, but it was only for her sake. For himself, he feared the breaching of that carefully fortified door.

He rubbed his arms and drew away a pace, repentant that he had come empty handed. Silently the angel looked down on the lone visitor as if wondering if he had been turned to stone as well. A bird flew in and pecked at the ground at his feet, but Noah did not stir, and the bird restlessly took wing. Only the leaves, blades of grass, and hem of his cloak moved under the air.

He lifted his eyes sadly toward the grave and hesitantly walked forward to kneel before the stone. Resting his head wearily against the ivy covered angel guardian, Noah was unaware when another visitor entered the graveyard. Only when he stood, pulling his hand from the marker with a ragged sigh, did Noah awaken to the other's presence.

Kasan Ranel stood before his father's fresher grave in silence, but seeing Noah rise, he took his cue to speak. "I didn't know you'd be here." Kasan shrugged apologetically. "I thought, considering my close call, maybe I should pay a visit to my father before I presume to join him."

"You owe me no explanation." Noah shifted, his eyes returning to the stone before him.

"I should return to the Palace and rescue the healers from Haleine." Kasan laughed lightly, a mix of humor and weariness in the sound. Then a spark of mischief sprang fresh in his eyes. "You will be wanted there as well, perhaps?"

Noah's lips quite nearly threatened a smile. "Likely."

Kasan left his father behind more easily than Noah quit his mother's grave, but the two found their way out together.

* * *

The Alexander, flagship of the 12th fleet and home to a collection of the most disciplined and capable troops in all of the Empire, in her commander's estimation, had met a heightened level of attentiveness and vigilance with the unexpected arrival of Judge Magister Zargabaath. If possible, every set of eyes was a little sharper, every action slightly more meticulous. Outside the carrier's physical confines, every flight pattern of every pilot of the 12th fleet became a little crisper with the knowledge that the Judge Magister himself might be viewing their maneuvers. Every unseen task handled in the belly of the great beast by those whose eyes had been denied the sun for days, and sometimes weeks, was that much more diligently maintained for knowing the Judge Magister's feet walked somewhere above them.

With so many assigned to life upon the proud carrier vessel, each a component in a precisely tuned mechanism, it was impossible for Zargabaath to know a fraction by name, and yet he knew them. He knew them by the tasks to which they were assigned. So many of this one skill was needed to accomplish this thing, so many of that one specialty to accomplish another. When any particular name stood out to him from the rest, the resulting consequence was often commendation or reprimand, promotion or demotion. All else continued on in his favor uninterrupted. Without order, the structure would fail and fall into mad chaos and all would be lost-as with the ill-fated souls of the Leviathan.

Retreat from chaos, and a connected need to reorder his own mind, had driven Zargabaath to this unscheduled coming. His Captains had assembled swiftly and seamlessly to meeting, with Zargabaath's silent approval. Each had given concise report and accepted without question their commander's following instructions. The machine ran smoothly on.

Zargabaath scanned the reports and charts before him carefully. Lieutenant Gracien and his men were on the ground but had reported no sighting of the suspects or suspicious activity as yet. Judge Oran was in the air and had his pilots continuously monitoring the region, diplomatic arrangements having been successfully made to cooperate with the small Dalmascan fleet. With as much subtlety as possible, so as not to alarm the public or make their enemy flee the net, the Imperial Army was securing sensitive locations and strengthening weak zones with additional presence. Mastiffs had been brought in along the border entry and exit points to sniff out and ward off any new threat of explosion. The soldiers of the rank and file were as clueless as to the reasoning behind their placement as was the general public, but they obeyed, trusting their lives and purpose to others in whose hands the responsibility of such knowledge was placed. The arrangement was a comfort to his mind and a burden to his soul.

Zargabaath looked out from his private office aboard The Alexander and willed the troops success for the sake of the Empire and an Ivalice wearied of war.

Working in the dark without the benefit of prior knowledge or concrete data was never ideal and never to be desired. Although it was dirty and unpleasant business, trading information with thieves and mercenaries for a price of Gil or a blind eye to offense, it was a useful ingredient to maintaining the peace and staying one step ahead of the enemy. …Useful and somewhat lost in the changing tides. …Perhaps still the prisoner Gabranth had condemned to silence and solitary in the depths of the Palace's secret prison would prove useful.

Zargabaath removed from a locked compartment of his desk an aged tome and traced the heavily scripted words with the tip of his finger. How eagerly he'd consumed the priceless and carefully guarded volume upon his entrance to the Magistry. And though he had quickly committed the many pages to memory, he had read the entirety countless times since. There was much to be gleaned from the battle histories passed down through the Solidor line. There was courage to be drawn and inspiration to be found and battle knowledge to assimilate. There was wisdom above all, for if nothing else, a man might learn to avoid the pratfalls that worked to keep victory at bay.

The pages were filled with descriptions of circumstances surrounding the battle event, the strategy undertaken, and the end outcome. The hand was that of the Emperor Solidor of the time or that of his leading General in the arena. The beginning pages were aged and darkened with time. The stain upon it was worn. The script and vocabulary put to use showed a difference, though perhaps still slight, in the culture of the time. The last pages were of fresher parchment. The hand was that of Emperor Gramis.

When last he had been honored to partake of a late morning's breakfast with the Emperor, Gramis had placed a charge upon him concerning the precious record.

"For Larsa…" The Emperor had paused to lift a jewel encrusted chalice of wine to his lips and ease the beginnings of a worrisome cough. "…when he is ready."

Zargabaath had not questioned, though his heart feared the meaning of Gramis's instruction. He had bowed to the will of his Emperor, accepting the manipulations and maneuverings of the Empire and of House Solidor. If reason had been needed for placing the document into the hands of a Judge Magister with the implicated intent to bypass Lord Vayne, Zargabaath had found reason in judging the writings to be of sentimental value above strategic worth. For all of its irrefutable wisdom, the cloaked and crimson-stained secrets of the most clandestine undertakings of the Empire would not be found in these pages. Perhaps more likely, the gift revealed the favor of the father's heart. Gramis had been a keen and ambitious ruler, but where he had succeeded with his nation, he had failed with his offspring, and Larsa alone had been spared.

…Once all of Archadia had happily anticipated the day when Cassiel Solidor would lead the Empire with Aleron at his right hand…

Zargabaath gently smoothed the carved pattern of the Solidor seal upon the leather cover. Was Larsa ready? Seriousness creased a well practiced path upon his brow. The Empire would not wait.

One last look at the reports and charts neatly organized on the desk before him, one last look at the Mist powered screens that actively showed him the location of the Imperial forces, and then Zargabaath pushed away from the desk and stood, tucking the leather-bound book inside his armor.

An officer met him outside the door. "Commander." Zargabaath nodded, his steps even and long, and the officer's commands to his men were equally smooth and silent as he fell in at Zargabaath's side. The armored Imperial airship was ready and waiting, and an escort of fliers hummed in tune outside as Zargabaath settled into the comfort of his ride back to the Palace.

* * *

"I want to speak with my Uncle." Larsa's young brow was furrowed as he thought aloud, and there was determination in his step.

Basch noted that the encounter with the Senate had not impacted Larsa so personally this time. He was becoming accustomed, a double-edged sword in Basch's mind.

"Of course, my Lord." Basch nodded, as much to himself as to the boy. He was relieved, in truth, to be able to settle the matter of Larsa's safe keep and preoccupation while he must see to other things. …Things like questioning once again Kasan Ranel. There was more to his story than he had as yet admitted, Basch was certain of it, and they could not afford to be kept in the dark by allies as well as foes.

"I hope the boy, Faolyn, is improved." Larsa's concern was clear.

Basch's step slowed. "Lord Larsa…"

Larsa stopped and turned. "Basch." Noting his error, he dropped his voice and looked about furtively, but only Wulf was in sight, hanging back a few steps. Larsa corrected himself and continued. "Gabranth, I believe what _our friend_ has said, that the boy is not a danger to us. He was afraid, and who can blame him on that count? It is important that I try to understand him and learn all I can from him. And anyway…" Suddenly Larsa was just a boy lonely for a friend.

Basch understood Larsa's wish for friendship and also that he would not be deterred. "As you say, my Lord, but remember to use caution. The boy will not be less afraid here."

Larsa frowned, grieved but not arguing the point. "Yes." And then he remembered Wulf.

Fairly rushing to the conscripted Diplomat, Larsa reached out and pressed a hesitantly offered hand between his smaller palms. "Thank you, my friend. I will not forget your support. The Senate is distrustful by nature, of course, and they would be loathe to admit it, but you have left them little choice but to consider your words. Together, we have made a strong case for the alliance between our countries, and now we can move forward against this potential danger together. Again, I thank you."

Wulf's eyes could not hold on Larsa's face as Basch watched him struggle for an appropriate and honest reply. "I-am here to help."

Larsa accepted Wulf's brief response with a smile of gratitude, pressing the calloused palm of the warrior once more. He then turned again to Basch, who escorted him on to the door of Jolon's suite.

"Ah, Larsa." Jolon appeared at the door, newly outfitted in rich, Imperial garb and sipping imported drink from a crystal goblet.

"Uncle, I am eager to talk with you about-" Larsa waved his dismissal to his reluctant guardian, and Basch moved slowly away, eyes continuously cast over his shoulder toward the door.

In a few paces, he met Wulf, who fell in step at his side, and the two made for other corridors. Nearing Wulf's assigned quarters, Basch skipped a step and waved toward the rooms down the hall. "I have duties to perform. Why don't you rest for awhile, and later-" As Wulf threw himself bodily at Basch's armored form, Basch heard the bitter reply echoing through his helm.

"Why don't you go to hell."


	38. Do You See What I See?

"Wha-? Uggh." The clash and clatter of steel on steel resounded through the towering hall like thunder as, stunned by the venom of the bitter words and unprepared for the assault, Basch was carried to the floor by the momentum of Wulf's attack.

Wulf's volatile anger made him erratic and cost him control as much as it spent his reason. Basch quickly disentangled himself from the Nabradian and came to his feet. He warily moved back a pace, muscles ready, hand instinctively wishful of the sword he knew he must not draw against Ashelia's emissary. His eyes diligently scanned the corridors along the vast hall and moved back to the warrior as Wulf rebounded and circled the object of his wrath. Even if Basch had not been distracted, he'd not have seen an intricate battle scene mosaic divide into so many puzzle pieces two corridors over. "Quiet, Wulf," Basch's warning was soft but firm. "These things are not meant for all ears." But he'd not have heard what moved in silence.

"You expect _me_ to protect your precious, little Emperor?" Derision spewed from his lips. "How can you ask _this_ of me?" Desperation now. There were flecks of spittle at the corners of Wulf's mouth as he bit off words that could not be contained. "_You?_ You who let…" He choked on the words and his voice dropped to a shuddering whisper. "…who let Rasler die?" The Nabradian recovered himself and his tone strengthened. "It should have been you! It should have been-"

Basch grimaced at the accusation as he removed the armored helm of the Judge Magister and stared into Wulf's bloodshot and wild eyes, but the knot in his gut and the pain in his chest did not still his hand. "Enough!" With unforgiving purpose, the armored hand threw Wulf against the wall.

The proud warrior hit the immovable stone with a startled wince and sprang forward with a curse. "Traitor!"

"You forget who you are." The scar across Basch's brow was bright against a face turned pale and stern in rebuke. "You are Sir Wulfken Lochinvar Hadriel, son of a proud line of Nabradian Knights, trusted defender in the service of Her Highness Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. You have made an Oath, and you are bound to keep it or die in the trying."

"_I _have forgotten who _I_ am?" Wulf returned the indictment to the one who would charge him, but his passion for the argument had lost strength and his anger drained as suddenly as it had swelled. Basch was ready when the knight's weight fell on him, and his armored forearm was there to keep the Nabradian securely in place. "Give me your anger if it needs place," Basch offered him, more gently now. "I would return Lord Rasler and restore your people if I could. I cannot. The past is what it is."

Rasler Heios Nabradia…so young and brave and true… So foolish. Family and country lost, passion and grief had caused Rasler to fight on in a battle a more jaded eye of experience could see was lost. If fate had been kinder and gifted time, the young Nabradian would have been a great leader of his people. If experience had been given opportunity to season courage and passion, he would have been an inspiration to those who remained. He and Ashe would have stood together, and the remnants of their kingdoms would have rallied to their banner. The Houses of Dalmasca and Nabradia would have twined and strengthened, and so much might have been altered. Vayne's spool of intrigue might have unwound without so much bloodshed. King Raminas himself might have been spared. If only the sniper's aim had not been so true. If only Rasler had not turned to face the coming blow. If only the armor had been more secure. If only Basch had seen the archer a moment earlier. If only his mount had been a pace quicker. …If only Rasler had heeded his advice. …If only his own body could have shielded the young General and heir to the Nabradian throne from the killing blow… If only… But it was not to be.

He let Wulf go, and the knight slumped against the wall, pained as much by the kindness as the fight. "Just like that?" Wulf's hands raised halfway and fell to his sides. The sound that he made was one part laughter and two parts tears. "That's it?"

Basch's brow flexed just slightly and his eyes diverted to some undefined space in the distance. The scar seemed to darken with the shadow that crossed his face.

Footsteps echoing down the hall brought Basch back to himself. Wulf too seemed to have recalled enough of wisdom to understand the necessity of appearances and enough of pride to lift his head. He straightened though he grimly looked aside as he waited for the Judge Magister's business to conclude.

"Ah, Wulf! Just the man I've been looking for!" Kasan Ranel's long, dark hair was damp; his clothes the same, and Basch frowned as he searched to discover the answer to a question just out of reach. The Archadian's eyes were friendly and without guile. He took no apparent notice of the situation he'd happened into.

Wulf swallowed and scowled. "Whadayawant?" His words were a slur, his manner surly, but Kasan again took no heed.

"I wish to review the damage done to my home. I thought perhaps you'd like to accompany me."

Basch's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he moved a few feet away, turning to see as many angles as possible. Twice guards crossed from the more remote corridors, but none came near. No unidentified shadows were seen lurking. Still…

Wulf blinked, his expression bewildered. "Why?" There was nothing agreeable in his tone.

Kasan shrugged lightly, but Basch detected a trace of shrewdness in the smile that accompanied the answer. "My workshop and forge are there."

Wulf could not conceal his sudden and genuine interest, and Basch watched as curiosity overcame his wish to cover his shame and grief with a patchwork veil of resentment, anger, and moroseness. The knight's hazel eyes lightened and his frame relaxed as added years and burden were shed in favor of youthful anticipation. Still, he needed a valid cause… Kasan promptly provided.

"Meret Denali's remaining men might return to complete their nefarious work."Basch studied Kasan Ranel's manner for anything to tell him the sincerity and seriousness projected by the young man was not to be held as true.

"Yes." Wulf nodded, pleased to be able to accept the gifted justification for his cooperation.

Basch stepped forward. "I will assign an escort."

Wulf glowered, but Basch raised his hand firmly. "The safety of Dalmasca's envoy is the Empire's responsibility. My responsibility. You will do this, or I will accompany you."

"I'm no child." Wulf's muttered remark was for Basch's ears only as was Basch's reply.

"No. You are not."

Wulf's face flushed, but whether from pride or shame, he kept silent.

"Come, you'll find that in Archadia, as in Dalmasca, the air outside the walls is free." Kasan's amiable manner coaxed Wulf back from the edge of the chasm he was staring into.

Basch walked with them, keeping a few paces behind as he studied the hallways and faces to see if any minutiae seemed out of place. All appeared as it should, and yet Basch felt uneasy.

He lifted a hand and motioned crisply to a guard as they neared. The soldier hastened to obey the subtle gesture, approaching with a swift and precise gait. "Your Honor?" A hand to the fist and a sharp nod of the head signaled his respect for the Commander's rank.

"Arrange a private airship from the Emperor's fleet and see Sir Hadriel and Master Ranel upon their errand."

"Sir." The knight nodded once again and turned on his heel to obey as Wulf and Kasan also began to move down the pass. A hand from the Judge Magister on his arm stopped the knight's progress. A warning glance from the Commander stilled the question on his lips.

Aware that the Archadian soldier was no longer with them, Wulf scoffed under his breath, "This is where our wings are clipped and we earn our chains."

Kasan laughed slightly. "Yes, I imagine it's so." At Wulf's dark demeanor, Kasan put a hand on his shoulder. Wulf tensed and jerked as if to move away and Kasan dropped his hand. "It won't be that bad out there." At Wulf's confused glare, Kasan continued. "We are Imperial, but we are Hume, you know."

Wulf stalled and fell a step behind Kasan, watching the strong figure of the Imperial warrior-swordsmith. "I wonder."

* * *

Basch diverted away from the elevator that would have carried him at once to his destination. He preferred to walk when it was practical and time permitted. Here, in this place, he felt safer. It was still in him to distrust the Archadian soldiers that must always trust their lives now to him. The imbalance was not lost to him, but his lack of trust might save them all. This trait above any other seemed to seal his authenticity as Gabranth. His brother had not made his way in the Empire by trusting easily.

His brother…

Noah!

Basch's booted foot left a scuff mark on the stone, and he wavered for a minute, caught between two paths.

"Agh!" Ignoring for a moment the panic that called him to race to the chamber he'd designated for his brother, Basch forced his feet to stay the intended course down two floors of stairs and into his offices. He greeted the staff, members of the Imperial Army all, as a faceless whole. He'd memorized each one by pouring over personnel profiles in his early days. Now he could see them without study. He would know if anything was amiss and that was all that mattered at the moment. Moving swiftly, he left them laboring over the mundane and tedious in their never-ending task of sorting through the flow of information spewing always from every crack in the streets.

Most of it was useless. Some of it was purposefully false and intended as distraction. A very little would prove invaluable and might save Larsa's life. Anything falling into a priority status would find its way into his hands at once. His network of contacts was building, and Judge Oran and his team had done very well with surveillance. Still, sources of key information were thin…too thin.

A circular antechamber separated his from the more accessible offices of the staff. He rapidly trailed between four granite pillars, themselves carved into statues of past warriors, upon which an arched ceiling rested to create a gazebo of sorts. Under his feet was a circular pattern of hand-carved, inlaid tile, each piece painstakingly set. When first he had walked freely throughout the Palace, he had found these things remarkable, though not so much as when first he'd laid fresher eyes on the beauty and artistry found inside the walls of Castle Rabanastre. Now, though he regarded their significance and symbolism in the Empire, he had little time to consider the workmanship or the grand designs of the halls he traversed. These were just the trappings of power. Like the armor he wore, the magnificence of the Palace was meant to inspire awe and either reverence or fear, as the situation called. Their job was done; he had his own.

Into the private office and to the desk he'd made his goal, Basch went. Sitting in his chair, he turned a piece of molding on the frame before him and pulled down to reveal a hidden panel. Scrolling his finger across a series of numbers and moving a latch while simultaneously pressing released a trigger that opened the secret drawer.

Basch had discovered the drawer one night while pondering Larsa's growing pains with the Senate. Sitting in contemplation made his fingers antsy. He'd have rather worked it out with sweat, but with no Vossler to engage in a sparring match and finding himself reluctant to suggest a joust to the stoic Zargabaath, he had absentmindedly diverted himself by bothering with the raised design. It was then he accidentally found the molded movement. It was clever and useful. The numbered code had taken some trial and error to break. He suspected the code was changed routinely but hoped Noah would choose an important family date. No date of birth, death, or marriage had triggered the release. The date of Noah's entry into the Magistry was unsuccessful. He'd even tried his own date of ascension to the position of Captain, in case his brother viewed their ranks and accumulated honors as competition. None had been correct, and he was on the brink of manually disassembling the puzzle. Finally he had taken to a more complicated system of discovery, changing the letters of names into numbers according to their corresponding position. And that's when he found that his own name decoded was the key. For what reason, loathing or love, Noah had chosen, Basch could not say, but it had comforted him in those days of thinking his brother dead and forever lost to him to tell himself that it was a remaining fragment of shattered affection. ...That nothing had been in the drawer had dampened the faith in this belief, but still the thought was there.

Basch pulled out the pouch he'd stashed in the cavity and tucked it beneath his arm. He'd not delay this time. He walked to far wall where a cylinder cage waited behind brass bars. His selection made with the turn of a knob and the pulling of a lever, the mist-powered enclosure deposited him in moments along a secure hallway where it would have taken long, precious minutes on foot to go.

His pace was near running when he reached the door to his brother's appointed quarters. Despite the guards stationed nearby, Basch knew the instant he stepped through the doors that Noah was not present. Tense and agitated but careful not to show it, Basch exited. Larsa was with Jolon and the child. Noah would surely not have interrupted. No, not uninvited. His regard for Larsa was too great. He burst through the door of his own chamber, angry and frustrated with concern, to deposit the package in his hands before setting off to locate his wayward twin.

"Hello, Basch."

* * *

"Would you care for a drink?" Noah poured red liquid from a dark, dusty bottle labeled with the Emperor's seal.

Basch stood in stunned silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. His brother's hair, dingy and dark and caked with filth in Dalmasca, was clean and soft and a mixture of honey and wheat now. His beard, lately stained and soiled with blood and oils and the grime of the desert air, was sandy in color only. ...Only once in the years since they were boys had Basch seen his brother with hair untrimmed. Only once.

Noah seemed to sense his thoughts. The glass shook just a bit before being abandoned untouched.

"You are wet." Basch saw the specks of dampness on Noah's garments as he drew near. "Kasan Ranel was the same."

Noah turned away. "Did he successfully divert the Nabradian?"

Basch shifted his weight to one side and then, in an uncharacteristic act of frustration, tossed his helm upon the lap of the nearest armchair. "It was _your_ doing."

"Wulf will be safe with Kasan." Noah was unrepentant and vague. He took up the helm and settled into the leather chair, holding the familiar piece in his hands.

"But will Master Ranel be safe with him," Basch returned sharply. He felt his ire rise with his level of concern.

Noah was expressionless as he buffed the helm against his sleeve. "Don't underestimate Kasan." ...He could see what had brought the twinge of pain to Basch's eyes a moment earlier in the reflection now staring back at him.

"Nor Wulf." Basch's chin lifted. "Despite what his irrational behavior might say of him, he was a worthy warrior for the Nabradian throne."

It had the makings of a contest where they might pit their own Champions one against the other, but Noah, with other thoughts in mind, did not challenge. "We come to the anniversary of the destruction of Nabudis."

Basch recoiled internally. "I recall it." The delivery of his response was curt; his posture spoke of finality.

Noah nodded, inhaled and released a deep, resigned breath, and made no attempt at the futility of drawing his brother out on the subject.

Between them the invisible fracture shifted, but it did not bleed. It just lay there like the scars on their bodies, reminding them that they were not whom they used to be.

The remaining sparks of an old terror raced through Noah's veins and met with a familiar chill that froze the coals of his blood where they ran. He laughed silently to himself, and the melancholy sound of it echoed in the hallways of his spirit. How he had feared letting go. How many nights had he awakened with a scream grasping for a slipping hand, reaching for a vanishing embrace. How many times had he looked into the bottom of an empty goblet and cursed time that takes the precious memories of a once-beloved face. To forget... To be forgotten... The ever-present fear.

Once Basch had abandoned him, and yet it was Basch that had kept him company all these years. Hatred had kept his brother with him. Hatred had managed to keep love alive. Hatred had ensured that he would never forget that face. ...There was no hatred now, and the wound was becoming difficult to pull into focus. In its place cowered the specter of love. It was fractured and brittle, barely holding together. It was worn and thin, transparent and wasting.

He closed his eyes, but the vision stayed. It was their mother, fragile as a hollow, glass doll carried up in his arms. It was her voice, thin and wavering, crying out from pain, loneliness, and need in the night. It was her flesh picked from the bone by sickness, the light in her eyes faded to darkness, the well of her spirit emptied and dry.

He opened his eyes to the reflection before him. The image distorted and changed.

It was Basch, face bloodied from the wound that he now wore forever upon his brow, waking to darkness and chains, screaming and struggling before futility sank in and turned his heart to steel. _"No... NO! How could you...? NOAH! WHY?"  
_It was Basch quoting stories their father had read to them as children, poetry their mother had shared when she tucked them in at night, and recounting dates that spanned the history of Ivalice to keep from going mad in his friendless solitary. Basch suspended like a plucked bird in the cage, counting heartbeats as a way to remember to breathe as he endured treatment not fit for a beast. Basch, shivering not from cold but from his body's rebellion to the oppressive heat and the strain and the shame. Basch staring out at him with shielded eyes that must not waver lest they break, branding him with silent accusation. It was Basch banging his bloodied fists, bone covered with broken skin, on the walls of his stifling enclosure when he didn't know Gabranth had left his party outside the sector while he lingered…just to linger.

Without realizing, Noah reached out to comfort the ghost trembling at his feet.

"Have a drink."

Basch's voice, undisguised, interrupted. The helm was taken from his hands. Noah blinked to clear his blurring vision. The specter disappeared as his brother materialized. "What?"

"Take it." Basch insistently held the crystal stem out to him, and Noah accepted.

Relief eased the fist in Basch's chest as Noah drank and was soothed. His brother could not know how it pained him to see him suffer. …Was it anger or guilt that bound his tongue in silence? The words were locked away. He lifted his gloved palms, and his eyes begged understanding-in so much as eyes so accustomed to hardening against those who demanded surrender were able to beg. "I know of no other way to survive than to go on."

The half-smile that crossed Noah's lips might have carried some sadness, but in the tone of his quiet reply there was no judgment. "I know." He nodded toward the bottle. "Have a drink, brother."

The exchange between them was soft and edged with grief, but along the carved wound sprang tender shoots of green, sprinkled in translucent dew, and the invisible specter was for a moment at peace.

* * *

"How much longer?"

Kasan nearly laughed aloud at the childish inquiry, but consideration for the Nabradian's already battered pride silenced him. "See down there?" He pointed out the window toward one of many lights casting thin silver and gold rings upon the gloaming. "That's our destination."

"Okay." Though he'd accepted the response, Kasan noted the warrior did not turn his eyes to look beyond the interior of the Imperial air-shuttle. Neither did he look across the comfortable space to the knights, two swordsmen and a pilot, assigned to accompany them-for security's sake. Instead, Wulf leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Within moments, Kasan heard the vibration of light snoring. All but lost in the competing sound of the airship's steady hum and wrapped between the spurts of Wulf's breathing, the Nabradian knight mumbled again and again, "Should have been me… Should have been me… It should have been me."


	39. The Edge of Yesterday

_He stood where he had stood so many times before, but he had changed and the world had changed around him. The vacancy inside echoed with whispers of longing, looking for a piece of himself that had gone missing. A piece he feared could never again be found… _

Slowly, distractedly, Noah traversed the generous borders of rooms once his own. Absentmindedly following some old routine, he dimmed the sconces to a low glow of warm light and opened the doors to the private balcony where he stood staring off into the far distance.

Basch watched and followed in the cool edge of his twin's shadow but left his brother unhindered. Noah didn't turn when the chiming report of metal rustling with Basch's every calm step signaled his coming, and his eyes didn't move as his brother took place at his side.

Basch considered the strangeness that they should be here, in this place of all, together. Never as youths would they have believed it. Being told, they would have scoffed. Truly even now it seemed more likely a twisted dream. He wondered and waited for his brother to reveal some intent and finally spoke in the hopes of spurring his twin to some disclosure. "Has it much changed in your absence?" His question went unanswered, and Basch allowed Noah his thoughts as his own sight scanned the horizon and then wandered over the edge of the terrace.

"_Don't even think about it." Noah called out sharply in warning and tapped his brother on the arm, motioning him away from the cliff's edge. "It's too shallow and dry. We'd be dashed on the rocks, and then what would become of mother?" Despite the caution that he urged, his eyes held the same yearning as in his twin's. _

"_We," he had said, because there was no consideration from either that their fates would not twine. As one went, so the other. _

_Basch sighed, "I know, brother. I was only enjoying a little wishful thinking." He gave his twin a bittersweet grin and left the trickling waterfall and sorely diminished creek behind. _

_This day of their fifteenth year was like most in their recent past. By the time the sun rose to its midday height, the fon Ronsenburg twins had been working in the neighbor's field for hours. Their fair skin had first reddened under long days of labor in the heat and today added another layer of tan and rose. Their hair, dark blond in winter and days of shade, was siphoned of color, bleached near white under the season's continuous glare. Both skin and hair were stained with dirt and sweat. Neither boy noticed or took time to care. _

_They had matured since their father had left them, a year and some months now past. Would he have recognized the youths in the field as the sons he had wrapped under each arm in the days before he exited their lives? _

_The boyish softness of their features was being quickly erased by growth and hard work. Gentle curves of the face had been sharpened to planes. Eyes were losing the wideness of childhood under brows that cast more shadow. Noses were sculpted. Lips were firm. When filth was not obscuring and the mirror was bright, there was even a hint of what might be called stubble on the hardened jaws. The hands that wrapped around the handles of shovels and picks and rakes were almost as wide as their father's had been, though slimmer for now. The fingers were as long, though more bone than meat. The arms that powered each thrust of the shovel or stab of the pick or pull of the rake were chiseled if lean. The legs were long if gangly. The backs and chests that were bare to the sun were still narrow but were sinewy in strength. _

_More than anything, it was the gravity about them that he might have found foreign. There was dirt etched around both sets of eyes but the lines drawn there were from straining into the sun and not from laughter. The lips that tensed with every exerted effort revealed determination but no hint of pleasure. A burden of worry and responsibility hung over them, making them older and more solemn than their peers. _

_Maybe it was for this reason that the invitations from once-friends had ceased. Or maybe it was simply that expectation of their ability to forego obligation and participate in such pleasant activities as youths will find had given way. In any case, it had been months since they had been last summoned to join in the juvenile frivolity. …That request had been declined, because stock had broken free of a neighbor's pasture and Gil was to be had if the beasts could be reclaimed in short order. That job had taken them well into the night, and they had witnessed their friends' return from the festivities upon the lane as they passed by…_

_Basch looked up from his task and cast a glance over his shoulder to gauge their progress and sighed to find so much more before than was behind. His eyes turned to where Noah labored on. The sheen of sweat had earlier washed the furrow between his brother's shoulder blades, changing dirt to mud, but Noah's back was now matte and crusted with scales of grime._

_Basch stabbed his shovel into the ground and swung the strap holding their water container over his head. Not a good idea to get dehydrated in this heat. As he crossed to his brother, he took a long swig and savored even such lukewarm fluid as it slid down. _

_Noah, back to his brother and unable to hear Basch's footsteps above the clatter from the pick he used to stab the earth or over the throb of his own taxed pulse, sensed his brother still and turned to meet his twin._

"_Here." Basch held the canteen out, and Noah eagerly held the opening to his parched lips. _

"_Thanks." Noah handed the container over and swiped his beaded brow with a dirt speckled forearm. A smear of brown remained across his forehead, disappearing into spikes of hair lightened by sun and darkened by grime and perspiration. _

_The summer sun was now at full strength just as they began to feel their own wane. Noah looked past Basch to the patch of wood at the border of the field and directed his brother with a nod. Basch agreed in kind. Neither of them had words to spare. They were too weary to make a worthy attempt at conversation. Thankfully, it was unnecessary for the most part between them. They trudged to the shallow thicket and sank to the ground at the root of an aged tree, enjoying the precious shade for just a moment. _

"_Remind me why Farmer Bartus had to have his field worked in the hottest peak of the season." Noah laid his head back against the bark, fighting to keep his eyelids from clamping down over his sleep-deprived eyes. _

_Basch, head likewise resting against the tree trunk, rolled his face toward his twin with a bit of a grimace. "Because we petitioned him for work, and he was kind enough to invent this need to aid in ours."_

_Noah's eyes opened and lit somberly on his brother's. The answer was true, and though it stung to remember, they must not forget. _

_At his twin's expression, Basch reached over and gave Noah's knee a comforting pat with his calloused fingers. Noah's smile contained both gratitude and understanding. For one to bring comfort to the other was to bring comfort to himself. Their feelings were shared. There was no need for deception, no barrier of pride between them. _

_For a few short moments they sat in silence and let their eyes sleepily follow the winding trail of a flock of birds overhead. And then Noah groaned and stretched. "Well…" He reluctantly found his feet and reached down for his brother. "We'd best get back to it. If we sit here any longer, you'll have to carry me home." Basch yawned over his agreement and grasped the offered hand, coming to stand beside his brother. _

"_You know…I thought we'd be further along by now." Discouragement clouded Noah's face as he viewed the field. _

"_Aye…" Basch exhaled loudly and then recovered. "Try not to think about it, brother. Looking back won't make the task ahead any easier." _

_Noah gave a twisted half-grin. "Yeah, I suppose that's so." He looked out to where their tools were imbedded in the earth. "Maybe it would help to trade off for awhile."_

"_Good idea. I'll take your spot and you take mine." Basch took a last swallow of precious water and handed the canteen off so Noah could do the same, and then they tramped back to the field and resumed their assignment. _

_The hours went by as they labored in silence. Once again they paused to switch tools, take a quick drink, and return to their purpose in unison. No two grown men could have worked more diligently. No two hired hands would have accepted the assignment for so little compensation and labored under such conditions without protest. Their reputation with their friends had fallen, but with their employers it had been made. If they were oblivious to the change, their mother was not, and her pride and grief were one._

_As the sun moved from its high place, little by little their mission also moved nearer to completion. So focused on their work were they that the patch of dark clouds gathering overhead was not observed except as a hindrance to their sight. The first drops of unexpected precipitation were not recognized as more than the sweat upon their skin. And then the sky spilled over._

_Their initial reaction was dismay. They would not finish the job that day as planned. Their claim to wages would be delayed, which in turn postponed their ability to soften any hardship their mother might face. Too, they dreaded that part of what they'd already accomplished might have to be redone, a torturous notion they could not long dwell upon._

_Disheartened but realizing nothing could be done to change that fate, the two gathered their tools and started back the way they came. The rain only intensified as they walked along, at times making it difficult for one to see even the other. They leaned into the rain to remain upright and plodded along as if they were pushing a wall. _

_By the time they came upon the cliff where they'd stood that morning, their blond hair was plastered to their foreheads and necks. Dirt turned to mud across their shoulders and ran in filthy streams down their spines._

_Noah took a step toward the edge of the cliff, and his brother caught his elbow and held him back. "Don't even think about it." Basch shook his head in alarm. "It's become too wild and deep. We'd be drowned, and then what of mother?"_

"_Yes, I know… I was just imagining…" Noah sighed and gave the creek, boiling and churning and pouring over its boundaries, a last, wistful look before joining his twin._

_As they walked along, the driving rain pelted their scorched shoulders, and Noah laughed tiredly, "I think my skin is steaming, Basch. Yours?" He reached over and lightly placed a hand on his brother's wet, sun licked skin and found it still hot to the touch._

"_I wouldn't doubt it." Basch reached for the canteen slung around his chest and then chuckled._

"_What?" Noah's tired mind had drifted into the rain for a moment, but he awakened to look for the reason behind his brother's laughter._

"_I was just thinking, I could use a drink." Basch grinned ruefully and let the canteen fall to the ground. In its place, he lifted his face to the sky, squinting to shield off the hurtling volley of water drops as he opened his mouth wide. _

"_Heh. Good call, brother." Noah dropped the tools he carried and raised his chin and hands. _

"_I hope the rain is clean." Belatedly, a degree of caution that had to do with parental advice about acid rain and yellow snow found its way in._

_Noah just laughed as he licked his dirty lips and closed his eyes to enjoy the pounding pulse of the torrent. "I don't think it matters, brother. We're not." He opened one eye and nudged his brother playfully._

"_True. Very true." Basch grinned widely and threw caution and fatigue away, pouncing at his brother. _

_Noah let out a pleased howl as Basch's wet arms grabbed his slippery midsection and pulled him down. The ground itself was a muddy pool, so much dry earth now running with rain that had not the time to soak in properly. The ground gave way to them like a sponge and cushioned their fall. A burst of displaced water arched over them. The two young men wrestled and splashed like the boys they once were and should still have been. Roaring with laughter, they rolled in the slushy mixture until their wet, blond locks and heat-blushed skin were painted the color of the earth. _

_It had been too long since they had felt free to forget everything and everyone. The release soothed, and it hurt. In their laughter was a note of desperation. In the wrestling embrace was felt a clutch of need. Hidden by the rain, their eyes watered with tears released by a shower of happiness and fed by a spring of sorrow. And then as quickly as it had been born, the manic burst of energy died. The brothers rested where they'd last fallen: Noah's head against his twin's shoulder; Basch's arm draped loosely around Noah's back. They were relentlessly pounded, flooding water raced and mud oozed about them, but they had spent the last drops of strength held in reserve, and their weary eyes threatened to close even as the flow threatened to take them. _

_When they were youngsters, it was their father who had come to their rescue after they'd been caught by the rain. Now it was the clatter of cart wheels and Chocobo cries that caused them to stir, sluggishly aiding one another in rising. The enclosed, metal wagon was pulled by a team of four Chocobos. It raced toward them and passed by, splattering them with a fresh coat of earthen paint. On the side of the frame was written boldly, "Tursam Goods-Buy, Sell, Trade, or Swap." _

_Basch couldn't help but feel dread. Noah's drawn forehead and darkened eyes let Basch know his brother shared his trepidation. The boys ignored their exhaustion and diverted from the well-traveled lane to take their own, familiar shortcut home. After only a few weighted steps, Noah shucked heavy boots, holding them in hand by the buckles, and began to jog. Basch skipped a step to follow his example in removing his shoes mid-stride, jumped over a fallen log when Noah darted swiftly around, and they exited the wood as evenly matched in gait as the Chocobos in their harness. _

"_Wait." Basch threw an arm out, and they halted as quickly as the rain-slicked earth would allow. Their mother was just returning to the house. Even from where they stood, not being able to see the detail of her face, they could interpret the discouraged slope of her shoulders and the slow and spiritless time of her step. Noting the direction of her path, Basch glanced to his brother and found the same stricken look in Noah's eyes that must have been in his own. _

_They slipped around the property and dashed for the barns, which could not be seen from the house. It took only a moment for the truth to hit them, for dreaded anticipation to become sickening reality. Of their father's wares (accumulated over years or stored until just the right buyer could be found), only a sprinkling of trinkets and a pattern of vanished crates in the dust remained. _

_Once not so long ago he had put a strong, affectionate arm around each and promised that someday they'd accompany him on his journeys. Once he had promised that when he was old enough, or their mother was persistent enough, he would retire to manage the books, and they would take his place in the travels. The twins had talked of and planned for this eventuality, imagining they'd be together on the deck of a fast airship, fon Ronsenburg & Sons emblazoned on the hull, garbed in the somewhat outlandish finery befitting of their predicted adventures. They would be famous, or infamous, depending on the mood of their dreams. Their parents would live like King and Queen, knowing no care, and be proud of their daring progeny. ...Now of those hopes, there was nothing left._

_Basch shuffled toward the last remaining box of goods, blinking back what he'd claim was caused by dust. He dropped to his knees beside the worn crate and sorted through the last of his father's treasures. _

"_We mustn't blame her." Noah had stood in stunned silence as his brother knelt. Now his voice shook a note as he softly defended. "She did what she had to do."_

"_She should have told us." Basch's hands trembled as he pulled a pair of goggles from the stack. His father had put them on four year old Basch with a companion leather helmet and laughed heartily when the goggles fell right down around the little neck as the cap covered his face to the nostrils. Basch dug a little further and found the dusty, worn leather helm._

_Noah shifted behind his twin, sadly looking down at the reminders of the past and what might have been. "She didn't want us to worry..." Noah looked around at the vacant space and sighed heavily. The sound was expanded in the hollow space. "I think…I think things must be worse than she's said, Basch. Think of how she holds on to even father's books and clothes. You know she'd not otherwise have done this thing."_

_The plea and reason caused Basch to consider. Yes, his brother was right…and that was not a better situation for any of them. Love and understanding pardoned the offense, though the sting lingered. "We'll not let her know we've found out. It would distress her all the more."_

_Noah nodded in accord, as relieved as he was ruined. He met his brother's eyes with determination. "We'll just have to work harder, so she won't have cause to worry."_

"_Yes, brother." Basch came to his feet, tucking the goggles into the leather cap and folding both secretively into his hands. "It's up to us to make things right." _

_They entered their home by the back way and slipped past their mother as she sat bowed over papers at the table. She was holding to the necklace Eben had given her as if for comfort. Beside her was a wrinkled, damp handkerchief. _

_Noah paused on the stairs, pained to see her suffer and tempted to go to her. Basch too was grieved, but he recalled Noah, with a purposed look, to their vow not to weigh her with guilt of their knowledge.  
Noah nodded and followed Basch into the room they still shared. _

_Basch tucked away the goggles and helm with his own personal things, and Noah didn't challenge him for a claim. "You go first." Basch motioned Noah toward the bath, but his brother resisted the privilege. _

"_We'll flip a coin. Heads or tails?"_

"_Heads."_

"_Your win, Basch." Noah tossed the coin on the dresser and waved him away. "Do try not to fall asleep in there."_

_The warning given was heeded, but Noah could not take his own advice. By the time Basch emerged, Noah was in deep sleep, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed in an effort to save the furniture from his filth. _

_Basch meant to wake him, sat down beside Noah consider the odds, and joined him in sleep before the thought was fully recognized. _

_They couldn't know, but when their mother came to rap at the door and call them for supper, she observed the scene with a tear and tender smile. There they sat, Basch, lower regions still wrapped in a towel and bruises from the day showing clearly upon his clean skin, and Noah, filthy and unkempt head to toe. They tilted toward one another as if each was holding the other up. _

_When they awakened the next day, well past their usual time, they were sheltered in an airy blanket, pillows propped around them as if they were babes. They laughed in embarrassment and then recoiled in dismay at being so late to begin. Noah had rushed to bathe as Basch grabbed their clothes and put things away, but when they bounded down the stairs with a riotous rush of feet, their mother only smiled softly and set heaping plates of food before them, kissing them each in turn lightly on the forehead. _

_As she turned to hide the grief in her own eyes, she did not see the pain mirrored in theirs. _

"_Farmer Bartus says you did very well." She strived to be pleasant and upbeat. "He says you can continue when the ground has dried."_

_The boys frowned in worriment. _

"_He has left a partial amount for what you have already accomplished and promises a bonus when the lot is fully cleared." She placed an envelope on the table between them, and they looked to it and to one another before pushing it back toward her._

"_For the family, mother." Basch spoke when she did not move. They smiled with encouragement and she swallowed hard and tried to push back the tears. _

"_I'm sorry…" She tried to speak but could not and fled the table._

_Noah winced and came to his feet to impede her escape. "Mother, it's all right." _

_Basch joined them. "We will do our part." Resolve made his face older. _

"_It's what we want." Noah affirmed softly, his arms around her shoulders as once his father's had been. _

"_My boys…" She looked at them desolately. There was a tremor in her hand as it stroked one's angled cheek and then the other's. "I wish…" She felt the soft growth along each jaw and smiled tenderly. "More like your father every day."_

Basch's eyes narrowed in thought. The goggles and cap, were they still in Dalmasca where he'd left them, or had the Imperialists…his Imperialists now…looted the locked box he'd placed them in? The sentimental pair of items had been among the few he'd taken with him when he left home. How Vossler had laughed, though his friend would not have allowed any other to mock him so, when he'd seen those things. Were they as lost as he? The smile that had drifted to Basch's lips was turned back.

Noah held his tongue and closed his ears to his brother's query. How could he answer to the question of change? Had the City changed? Yes. Had he changed? Yes. But then some things stood as always they had, against his will unyielding in their constancy.

_Down below to the east, held out of sight was the cemetery where their mother's body was embraced by the earth and watched over by stone. To the west was the little house where hope had died. Inar had sentimentally refused to sell the home even when he could no longer pay for repair. Haleine had made plans to tear it down upon her husband's death, but plans change when a Judge Magister appears in the doorway. _

_There the Senate. He could do without that pack of wolves. They would say the same of the Magistry. There the street where secrets were seeded and picked. The silence was deafening from here. There the Merchant District. He should have asked Kasan to bring back some pastry. The glazed kind Larsa preferred…if still he did. _

_A flash of light in the sky and the energetic flight of an audaciously decorous personal airship in the distance brought a smile to Noah's lips. Zecht, whose daring and skill as a pilot in battle had earned him great honor and his Judicer's plate, would have been driven to a contest of ability by the sight. _

"_Well, Gabranth, I've done with mine; now's the time for you to play your part." A younger and unburdened Zecht, piloting a cloaked flier on a mission to insert the spy, Lieutenant Gabranth at the time, behind enemy lines. The booming voice farewelling Noah with, "Bear in mind, if you die, I get your girl." Never mind that there was no girl. No time for a girl. No time to consider an answer or the flushed skin that warmed the mask he wore. Only the wind pulling him and the earth reaching for him and the snap and tug of the stealthy gliders that opened to slice through the current and lift him out of the jaws of a violent death as the ship and safety abandoned him to the deadly terrain below. _

_Noah's smile stretched a touch, recalling Zecht's congratulatory banter at their next meeting, "So, the rumors that you were roasted alive over a Rozarrian fire pit are false, after all! That must be a relief for you." An exchange of the kind of laughter that speaks of shared experiences, and they parted to separate missions. _

_The shadows moving over a Palace garden below turned his eyes downward and mellowed his smile. Drace, head bent to address young Larsa, his small hand holding to hers, walked the paths in his memory. Watching from the shadows, walking always somewhere behind in those early, learning days when he was rarely seen and rarely far away. Some question arising in Larsa's mind, a question with an answer his young mind felt could only be answered by one. The child turning with eagerness, calling to a shadow meant to be and thought to be unnoticed, "Branth? Branth!" Drace, annoyed with him because she could not be annoyed with Larsa, motioning him to close the distance with a quickness if he must come at all. Larsa's eager face turning to his as he bowed and took the offered hand of the child as it was held out expectantly and not withdrawn. Walking down the path with Drace on one side and himself on the other, Larsa sandwiched contentedly between, as the boy called for his recollection of some scene the acrobatic troupe had performed for the child's sole pleasure the day past. "Branth, do you bemember…?" For Gagranth had stood behind the pretentious chair, large enough for a grown man, to guard the young benefactor as the performers played under threat of his ominous stare. Drace looking over Larsa's head at him as he listened and answered the child. Her strange expression had made him wonder. _

_Those days had teased a false reality. The illusion wouldn't last long. Larsa's studies and training had preoccupied his time and matured him beyond his years. Vayne's resentment of Gabranth's presence and jealousy for his brother's loyalty, coupled with the Emperor's justified obsession with Vayne's doings, had kept Gabranth's time divided. Protocol had increased distance and turned "Branth" into a fond memory. He would kill and he would suffer and he would die for Larsa. He had proven all, if they needed proven, though Larsa need not know more than already he did of that. Living for him…it had proven an impossible task. _

_A breeze circled and kissed the two figures upon the balcony. The heavy banners were not stirred, cast down from high walls to announce in red of blood and black of night to any who might be led to wonder that House Solidor laid claim to the ruling power in this land. _

_His eyes lifted, and though from this location he would not see the high place wherein the Emperor took his seat, Noah could imagine Emperor Gramis in contemplation there, waiting for word from him of Rozarria, of Dalmasca…of Vayne._

_Vayne… He'd been only 17 when Noah had been introduced to the Palace, the same age Noah had been when he'd entered the Empire. At first glance, Vayne had seemed a somber, reflective boy with catlike grace and watchful eyes. The cub had proved a tiger, sharpening well-groomed claws against his companions to test their will and loyalty, silently padding after his prey with deadly fangs tucked behind a gentle smile. _

_Noah's eyes moved, scanning the walls and grounds. And then he was still. No, there was no hint of Vayne Solidor's prowling presence in the air. He took a deep breath. This change was good. _

_His eyes turned upward again, thinking of Larsa upon the throne in his father's place. He looked down again at the garden and saw Gabranth and the young Emperor strolling along the path. The armor was his but not the scar upon his brow. He saw himself, the ghostly watcher on the wall, and was contented to stay that way. _

_Yes, much had changed. _

Noah looked to see Basch staring downward, and the words came as if written for him by an unseen hand, "Don't even think about it. Without you, what would happen to Larsa?"

Without _you_… They had long ago willed their fates to divide, though will and fate cannot override the heart's desire.

Basch replied automatically, "He'd have _you_." He had nothing more to say at the startled flash of accusation in his brother's eyes. …Yes, he had made that decision for the both of them once.

Noah gave no response but left the balcony and reentered the chamber. Basch followed, restlessly aware of the time that had lapsed and his responsibilities elsewhere. As Noah prowled, Basch paced and physically felt the grains in the hour glass fall, the shadow move on the dial, the hands spinning by. Finally he could be patient no longer. "Noah, why is it you are here?"

Noah turned sharply and Basch caught a hitch in his movement that coincided with the almost invisible twinge at his brow. He would have said, "Your wounds pain you, brother?" Noah gave him no time.

"Why are _you_ here, Basch?" The challenge and defiance, Basch recognized. The wall that fell within his brother's eyes like a steel trap, he had witnessed at the most painful times of his life.

Basch abandoned concern, indignation and reproof in every tense muscle. "I am here to protect Larsa and protect the peace we have gained. But you have still given no answer. Have you none to give?"

"My reasons are no different than yours, brother." Noah fairly spat the reply into Basch's face.

"Mind, Noah, I did not ask for this charge. T'was you left it to me." Basch meant to imply that since Noah had entrusted Larsa to him, he should now allow him to pursue fulfilling his vow. Noah heard differently.

"Ah!" Noah reacted with amazement and disbelief. "Forgive me, brother." He swept his arm before him in mock veneration, and Basch scowled and turned away in distaste as Noah continued angrily, "I was diverted with the task of dying at the time, or I might have asked if you should be inconvenienced by the undertaking."

Basch, back to his brother, grimaced and wondered at how this exchange had come to be. He did not despair in the least at the charge he had accepted. That his brother had looked to him to take up the treasured trust, and put faith in him above all others at the end, was a comfort he had held to with both hands when mourning the second loss of a brother he had loved even through the brokenness and hatred. As for so long in the past, he locked up that truth now in the depths of his secret self and swallowed the key. He could not afford to acknowledge that he loved Noah still, not with his brother standing there assaulting his resolve.

Noah was silent now, and when Basch turned he was greeted with hard, guarded eyes. He could not see that the mask hid hurt his twin had forbidden from revelation.

"Well?" Basch had given up. Enough of this. Every moment he spent wrestling with his brother in this futile exchange, others worked toward the goal of harming Larsa and the peace he'd traded so much to defend.

But Noah's manner had changed, as if some thought had occurred to him that would impact all. When he spoke it was with some reluctance but without animosity. "Do you wish to be free, brother?"

"What?" Basch was startled now. He cared for Larsa. The young Emperor's safety was a burden he took willingly. Though he was honored by the asking, he no longer needed to be asked. He would not wish it to be thought otherwise.

Noah looked away, rubbing the muscle that pulsed at the height of his brow. "You said rightly that this burden was mine." There was a note of apology and shame. "I would not have deserted him by choice… Only…" He looked around him. "You ask if things have changed, and they have. The ghosts I see wandering here, you do not know. I sense emptiness from the absence of fear, and you would call the same stillness peace and nothing else. I see empty rooms. You see rooms to fill." He lost the path and ran his hands through the tresses that tickled his neck and feathered his sight. "I see Larsa and remember…and he will see me and always recall…"

Basch was too troubled to speak and waited for Noah to fully show what he should dread. It took only a moment as Noah found a path to pursue. "…Larsa does well with you. He is reassured and strengthened by your company. It pleases me, for his sake." And for his Basch's sake as well, but Noah could not now say it. "He has suffered more than is right in his young life. I do not wish to see him further harmed." Fondness for the boy leader and lament for his suffering were plainly held forth.

"Agreed." Yes, they could find harmony in this thing. Eagerly Basch stepped toward his twin, and Noah turned to him with concern in his study.

"I had thought… It seemed to me, you were not displeased by your role…" Noah struggled for words that would not leave him overexposed and shrugged to fill in what he could not find.

Basch answered with more conviction than he might have liked to make known. "I am honored to stand by Larsa. I have no complaint." Affection softened his tone when he said the boy's name, and Noah seemed soothed by what he heard.

Basch had questions of his own. "Do you mean to petition Larsa for a return to your place?"

Noah blinked. "I did not so intend…" He shifted his weight and lifted his chin. "But if it is your wish…"

"It is not my wish…" Basch again spoke more quickly than he liked, and he frowned at his aggressive zeal and pulled back. "But it is your right…"

Noah relaxed. "I am content…" He viewed his brother cautiously. "…If you are content."

Basch nodded. "I am content."

Noah granted his brother an easy smiled, hostility gone. Basch's return came with a crinkling at the corner of his eyes and a satisfied turn of his lips. But Noah sobered again too soon. "There is something else then, brother."

Basch took a longing look at the moment of peace that had been, sure that it had proven false.

"The packet you tossed aside…on the subject of House Ranel, by any chance?" Noah's perceptive gaze rested on his brother.

Basch frowned. The words in Inar Ranel's journal haunted him. His spirit had told him a story he did not wish to hear voiced. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge the truth before him. He had resisted long enough. Still, there were true reasons to inquire into the doings of the Ranel family. Meret Denali's assault on Madame Ranel was reason enough…

Basch led the way back to the sitting area they'd forsaken earlier. When Basch's back was turned, Noah gratefully collapsed into the cushioned seating, glad to let the dully throbbing remainders of his wounds rest.

"Here." Basch spread the papers out on the coffee table between them. Records of the Ranel family business and personal finance, trails to the Denali corporations in their books, and a record of the recent incident were detailed.

Noah skimmed most of it, looked carefully at the latest notations, and then put the papers down.

Basch watched him throughout, uncertain he wanted the answers he needed.

"How did you happen to be at the Ranel home when Meret Denali called?" Noah viewed Basch with similar hesitation at hearing the answer his brother might give.

"Madame Ranel sent a message asking for my attendance on a matter concerning her son."

"Heh." Noah inhaled and reclined his head, closing his eyes for a moment, and then he refocused on his twin. "I am sorry for that, brother. She would have expected the invitation to be seen as warning."

"Why is that?" Basch's voice was sharpened with worry. What more had he missed?

Noah drew another breath, pained either by his wounds or the interrogation. "Don't fret, Basch… There is no way you could have known that she was working for me."


	40. Suffer the Kindness

Glass crunched underfoot and ground into the soles of Kasan's boots as he walked across the floor of his home. The bloodied planks at the entry and crimson stains wiped and splattered about the room were macabre features among traditional Archadian décor, and Kasan grimaced to think of his proud step-mother lying helpless amid the wreckage.

Wulf's eyes were on him, watching for his reaction, and saw. When Kasan turned to meet the piercing gaze, Wulf looked away and snorted. "At least you have a home." Kasan opened his mouth to reply and then didn't. What could he say to that indictment with the buildings of Nabudis razed and her people reduced to ghosts in the mist? …Still, Archadian guilt over the fall of Nabradia did not erase the injustice done Haleine by Meret Denali. Kasan set his jaw. He would not repent that he cared.

Wulf scratched his scruffy jaw as his eyes lazily scoped out the ground level of the Ranel home. "I need to take a leak. Where's the can?"

"You couldn't have gone before you came?" Kasan uncharacteristically wished to mock, but he turned his back to hide any tells upon his face and directed the Nabradian with a flip of the wrist. "Up the stairs, down the hall to the right." These were his own rooms, but best Wulf stay out of Haleine's domain.

The Nabriadian warrior turned Dalmascan envoy stomped up the stairs, and Kasan scowled after him. With Wulf out of sight, Kasan drew a deep breath and smoothed his forehead of lines. It was no use letting Wulf get to him and worse to let him know if he did. For just an instant the thought crossed his mind, "You owe me, Gabranth." As quickly, Kasan dismissed the faithless declaration. Gabranth…Noah… whatever name he chose to be known by, owed him nothing.

"_Can… I come with you?" _

_He'd been watching for Noah Gabranth's approach from the window of his upstairs room. When the lanky frame and blond head came into view, Kasan had leapt from his perch, leaving the curtains flapping and the desk chair askew in his hurried exit. Darting from the doorway and down the hall, he'd almost unseated the aged household retainer on the steps. He'd slowed to sneak unnoticed past Haleine as she lectured another of the beleaguered help and glanced at the closed door of his father's study before slipping past the cook and to the servant's entrance. In eager anticipation, he answered the knock before Noah's hand hit the carved wood. _

_Noah's hand was still raised, knuckles poised to rap. The surprise of the swift greeting changed to wary hesitation at Kasan Ranel's question. Noah's eyes lifted from the boy to look past him into the home. Kasan understood at once. _

"_Father said I could if…" Here Kasan became reluctant to continue, and his tone was laced with dread. "…if my presence wouldn't hinder you in your tasks." It was true. Inar Ranel had given his, "Yes, yes. Just don't be a bother," absentminded permission with an impatient wave of one hand while the other hand removed spectacles and rubbed at blood shot eyes. Inar had dismissed his son with, "Close the door on your way out," and Kasan had retreated before his father could awaken to the particulars and change his mind._

"_Oh." The startled discomfort in Noah's eyes did not reassure Kasan of his chances, but unwilling to reenter the house and risk being summoned by his stepmother, he remained outside the back door, fiddling with a gadget he'd taken from his pocket, as Noah received instruction for the day from Inar's elderly manservant. His optimism was no more bolstered at Noah's return when the older boy studied him somberly as if for sign of deception. "Well…" _

_Kasan felt the weight of his own frame as his shoulders slumped, and he kicked at the ground as he resigned himself to returning to his room, door closed in mirror of his father for as long as Haleine, more able to control the boy than the man, would allow. _

"_We have several stops to make," Noah warned, looking at the paper in his hand._

…_We… Boyish happiness exploded upon Kasan's face, and a softer reflection lightened the serious countenance of the older lad to a tilted smile. _

"_Come then." Noah grunted as he took up a heavy box left by Haleine for local delivery.( She would never greet nor approve entry to the home beyond the rear doorway for this son of her husband's childhood friend, but she would use him none the less.) Noah transferred the package to one shoulder and started to tuck the schedule into the pocket of his clean but worn trousers. Noticing Kasan, he instead held it out to the younger boy. "Would you like to be the keeper of the list?"_

…_Keeper of the List… It sounded official and important. A shy flash of white teeth and a hasty nod was Noah's answer as Kasan stuffed the trinket back in his pocket and nearly tore the paper from Noah's hand. _

Lost in the memory, Kasan forgot Wulf and moved into his studio. Once the servant's quarters, now his domain since the servants had either died or been let go, the changes would render the space shockingly unrecognizable to the fastidious crew once at home here. He removed his top, tied back his hair with a discarded length of suede lace, and hung a well-used, leather apron about his neck. The hammer and anvil were still where he'd left them…

_It was clear that the burden Noah carried was heavier than the box of goods Haleine had sent him with, and discarding the load at a nearby business in trade for a signature on a bill of sale provided no ease. He'd walked in silence, politely aware of Kasan but no more, through the streets. Inside each office and business to which the list sent him, Noah spoke only the words necessary for conducting the business to which he was tasked. Now and then Noah would halt at the intersecting walkway and turn to studying the street signs like a lost tourist. This is when Kasan would step forward with native confidence and lead in the direction that would take them to their next intended destination. _

_As the third such occurrence marked the establishment of a trend, Noah unexpectedly acknowledged Kasan's assistance. "Thanks." His voice was serious, but a bemused glint had come to Noah's eye, and the turn of his lips held genuine humor in recognizing the help of his guide. Kasan, bursting with pride at being credited as a help, gave a grin that nearly split his face, and the older boy laughed out loud for the first time in young Ranel's hearing. Kasan was well pleased with the comraderie, but Noah's face soon sobered degree by infinitesimal degree. An ingredient of wistfulness crept in where evidence of good-natured mirth had been as he looked down at the dark haired lad at his side. When Noah's steel blue eyes turned to look off into the far distance, Kasan felt his sadness. _

"_Do you not like living here?" It was an impertinent question worthy of Kasan's eleven years, and it had taken Noah some time to find words to respond._

"_I…" The shield had slid over his eyes, blocking out the lonely longing that Kasan had only just glimpsed though so strongly. The eyes that looked down at him were at once expressionless and stoic. "Your father has been very kind. I am forever indebted."_

_It was no answer and an answer in full, and though he had not seen the chains that pulled around the wrists and feet of his companion, Kasan had understood with childish simplicity. _

_Having little in the way of social skills, no words of wisdom at his disposal, and no way in his eleven years to completely grasp all his spirit sensed, Kasan's reactionary remedy for Noah's heartache was an impromptu gift. "Here!"_

_Noah's brow quirked with amusement at the awkward presentation as Kasan threw his hand out into his chest. "What is it you have there?" Curiosity did its job and chased away gloom from Noah's youthful features. The apparatus in his hand was a round metal ball, dissected through the center, held together by hidden works, and flattened on each outside panel. It looked like an expensive child's toy, and Noah looked for the trick he was sure to find as Kasan looked on excitedly. Noah's fingers rubbed over the raised design in the metal. "Pretty." _

_Kasan's smile widened. _

"_Hm." Noah found a button on one side and turned the piece over to see a lever locked into place. _

_Kasan's smile disappeared as Noah flipped the lever and pushed the button. "Ah!" He slapped the ball from Noah's hand just as eight interlocking blades spiraled from the sides. _

_Noah jumped and stared, mouth agape, at first the contraption still spinning on the stone walkway and then at the boy. _

"_I'm sorry…" Kasan put a foot atop the disc and then retrieved the stilled mechanism. He pushed the button, and the blades disappeared with a metallic whisper. Flipping the switch to secure the device, Kasan started to hide the failure away in his pocket._

"_Let me see." Noah held out his hand, and Kasan obliged shamefacedly. "Where did you get this treacherous beauty?"_

"_I made it." Kasan's pride was hesitant to return. He knew not whether the admission would earn him praise or rebuke, and he feared what Haleine would do if she found that he'd been experimenting with the techniques he'd been studying for some vague, future implementation. _

_Noah looked at him peculiarly. "Why exactly?" _

"_I dunno. I was supposed to make a miniature windmill for display in the shop, and I started to follow the pattern, but then the blades…" He shrugged. "I just wondered…and then…and…" He shrugged again. Haleine was going to strip him of his little workspace in the basement. His father would shake his head, look at him that certain way that hurt so deeply, and shut the door to his study. _

Kasan inhaled the lingering scents of metal and ash and leather and sweat. A smile eased the tension of his brow as he lovingly picked up the hammer and felt the comforting weight in his hand.

_Noah had chuckled and held the strange weapon lightly on his open palm. "Someday, Master Kasan, I wager it will be for your work that buyers call on House Ranel. Who knows, maybe I'll do the same…if I can afford your prices." He had smiled and tested the device once more, this time triggering it by flicking the lever beneath with one finger of his open palm and then tossing it with purpose. The blades cut through a nearby shrub, sending neatly severed branches to the ground while the orb drifted softly to the lawn. Noah nodded, obviously impressed. "Yes. I think so." _

_Kasan had flushed hot at the look of respect given him by the older lad. The kind of regard that comes with being recognized for skill and accomplishment was new to Kasan, and the taste had left him hungry for more. _

_Upon retrieving the little weapon, Noah had tried to return it to its maker, but Kasan had turned him down. Haleine would destroy it if she found it, he explained. His father would never approve, he insisted._

_Though intrigued enough to accept, Noah had seemed guilty over the gift. "I'll pay you back someday."_

"_You can't pay for a gift." Kasan had inflexibly proclaimed. "That's the point."_

"_Stubborn." Noah had laughed and finally yielded. He made sure the lever was secure before he put the device away._

Kasan stroked a sheet of metal. He didn't have time for anything large. …Something small. …Just a little thing…

The hunger returned fiercely, and Kasan was lost to the forge and flame.

* * *

"Madame Ranel! Worked…for you?" A thousand emotions flitted across Basch's face as his mind hastened to calculate all the possibilities brought on by this revelation.

Noah watched his brother a moment and then stood to again prowl the rooms he'd not long ago called his own. "Prison being the other choice, her pride was slightly better served in my employ than in a cell."

Basch's eyes revealed alarm at Noah's dour statement, and Noah grew contemplative. "The circumstances were complicated, brother." He sighed. "Meret Denali and Haleine had a youthful history from the days before Inar. I doubt the lady ever cared for Denali, though Denali fancied that the lady should fancy him. But things having gone awry within her marriage, the connection goaded Inar, and that was enough reason." He managed to be blunt while avoiding details, but Basch read much in the world-weary expression that settled upon his brother's features. Stray wisps of disheveled wheat and honey brushed Noah's cheeks and he shoved them away. "She did not count on Meret's cruelty…or that it would be Kasan who would suffer. She cares more for her stepson than she would like to think."

Noah trailed along at the border of the room, tracing an invisible pattern on the wall with his finger. He stopped before the bookcase, looking up into the shelves.

"Denali wanted information on the security of the Imperial family and the workings of the Palace. Kasan was a Knight assigned to the Palace under Judge Magister Drace." Here Noah's voice gained a husky quality, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "…I knew of Denali, had agents watching his people and investigating his organization, but I was…distracted…" (His eyes flitted from the shelves to his brother.) "…when Denali used Inar's death as opportunity to strike at Kasan." Basch saw Noah's brow twinge and his jaw clench.

Strung like a piece of meat before the Denali butchers, Kasan had been more dead than alive when Noah had found him.

_The rage pulsing through Noah's veins was unnatural. It burned and flowed like lava, deadly and dangerous and uncontrollable. It swept him along in the current, and he did not resist. _

_Arrogant tormentors, buoyed by the capture of a blindsided, Imperial foe and confident of their chances against a dazed enemy held in chains, became at once jelly-spined beggars at the watchman's cry, "A Judge Magister!" Through the fog of his wrath he had smiled with acidic pleasure to see it. _

_Though they numbered over a dozen and he had recklessly come alone, Denali's men scattered in fear like a pack of rats in the sewers beneath Rabanastre, abandoning comrades who fell to the flaming stroke of his dual swords. He left them without pity where they fell. _

_A glint caught his eye in time for the Chaos Blade to deflect an armor-piercing bolt. A spark burst as the bolt hit the blade and fell harmlessly to the ground. His eyes found the shooter cowering against a far cavern wall. Too far away to strike at this range, pursuit meant to leave Kasan, dripping blood from grievous wounds and, feverishly determined to resist, recounting for his persecutors the proper way to build a forge through swollen, crimson-stained lips. Tempered by a higher call of duty to Kasan's well-being above that of vengeance, Noah stared out from the ominous helm into the eyes of the bowman, memorizing the face in detail. As if burnt by the searing gaze, the bowman's hands were suddenly weak, and the ornate crossbow fell with a clatter to the dirt and stone as its owner trembled and, stumbling, rounded the corner of the tunnel in search of cover._

"_Gabranth…" Kasan looked at him from eyes too bruised to open beyond a slit for the instant it took to confirm his rescuer, and then, as if the knowledge that the fight had passed gave him leave to surrender to his wounds, his eyes closed._

_In the moment, swiftness being more vital than gentleness, Noah struck the length of chain above Kasan's bloody wrists, and Kasan Ranel's limp body fell to the earth. Though the wounds of his salvation were more kindly administered than those of his capture, the abrupt release and unforgiving halt stole the last of Kasan's conscious resistance. He lay unresponsive at Noah's feet alongside the corpses of his captors._

_Reattaching the Chaos Blade and Highway Star into a bladed staff for ease of handling, Noah removed his heavy cloak and hastily wrapped Kasan's stripped body. Not willing to risk ambush with the burden of Kasan's fading life literally on his shoulders, Noah chose not to retrace his own steps, instead following the frantic retreat of the bowman. He gave the crossbow a glance as he passed. If his arms hadn't been full, he'd have taken it for evidence. The bowman had found his fleetness of foot and was long gone, his urgent tread leaving ruts in the earth now and then along the torch-lit path. At the mouth of the cave, Noah kept to the wall and searched the dark terrain for movement but found none. The circular pattern and broken brush just beyond the exit told him the survivors had fled in a hover craft. Cautious nonetheless, Noah stayed as low to the earth as the management of his cargo would allow as he cut an uneven path to the small, stealthy fighter ship he had piloted to this rescue mission. _

_Strapping Kasan's body into the co-pilot's chair, Noah powered the ship to life and let the mist power carry them from the makeshift prison. If Denali's men thought they had paid, they would pay the more for following such a fool. Perhaps they could be made to turn on their master before the end. Denali cared more for his skin than for his men; they would return the favor easily enough…_

_Kasan groaned and coughed, blood spewing from his mouth to run down his bare chest. Denali was a fool. You don't get information from a corpse. Kasan would not last to the Palace. _

_Noah reached to trigger release of a panel hiding a compartment in the molded console between them. With one hand, he popped the crystal stopper and poured the shimmering liquid between Kasan's lips. Kasan coughed again, losing some of the precious healant with bile._

_Noah saw the small stream mapped upon the terrain below, and directed the ship to the deserted span below. He was in the Dalmascan outskirts. If discovered, his presence would cause international uproar and give Rozarria reason to move. Used to furtively moving in and out of enemy territory uninvited, this was an unplanned diversion and the risk of detection was heightened by his lack of planning. What would Drace say…_

_Before the dust had settled from their unscheduled landing, Noah had snatched three more potions and was removing Kasan from the cockpit. Sprawled out upon the cloak at the edge of runoff from a nearby spring, Kasan was so still that Noah had a flash of fear that he might be too late. Cupping the back of his head in an armored hand, Noah forced one and then two more potions through gaping lips. Dropping the crystal vials to the ground, Noah rubbed Kasan's throat to encourage swallowing and was relieved to feel the reflex kick in. Kasan's breathing eased slightly, and Noah chanced to sprint back to the ship for more supplies. _

_Laying the Judge Magister's helm and the plated gauntlets aside, Noah had sat with Inar Ranel's son through the darkest hours of night, soothing his fevered brow with water from the stream, dabbing his wounds with salve, feeding him the last potion on hand, and monitoring his breathing for sign of change. It was an old ritual and a new patient._

_Threat of discovery with the soon-coming dawn prompted Noah to prepare for their departure. As he lifted Kasan, more gently this time, Kasan's eyes fluttered open. Unable to focus, his eyes moved randomly as he sought Noah's face. His hand grasped for purchase on Noah's armor. Unable to speak clearly, his words slurred. "Didn't betray..." His strength ebbed once more, and his body relaxed in Noah's arms as he continued to mumble through torn lips, "…I won't betray…"_

_Noah strapped the Imperial son in the co-pilot's chair, returned the Magister's helm to its place, hiding the blood and sweat darkened hair curling over his collar and falling into his eyes. He'd make a visit to the barber when it was over. …when it was over… He was suddenly fumbling as he secured his gauntlets, but in moments the quietly humming engines had lifted the ship into the air, and they were racing toward the awaiting arms of the Archadian sky. _

_Belatedly, Noah reached over and softly touched Kasan's bloody shoulder with an armored hand. "I know, Kasan. I know." Kasan, drifting in and out of consciousness, gave no reply._

_When Kasan was safely in the care of the Palace physicians, Noah made another unscheduled stop. _

_She had come down for breakfast cinched in a monogrammed robe of velvet. The years of servants behind her, she had moved toward the cabinet to seek out the ingredients for her meal not seeing the shadow waiting. When she turned from the storage, her eyes were looking into an armored chest. _

_Haleine Ranel's face had drained of color at the sight of him, bloody and cold as death. The floor, his boots, and her slippered feet had been coated with flour and cinnamon as her fingers lost their grip. Her eyes had grown wide and frantic; her lips had parted in silent panic as he held his bloodied fingers out to her. "Look closely, Madame Ranel, at the blood of your son." She blanched and shrank from him, but he would not yield or give her relief. "It was not enough that you should hasten the death of the father; you have seen well to the torment of the son. A loving mother indeed." _

_Trembling, her legs lost their strength, but his hand, bared to reveal the dried evidence of Kasan's suffering, caught her, dragging her with merciless force to a nearby chair. Depositing her there without ceremony, Noah bent in close to look her in the eye. She twisted and turned but could not avoid his unrelenting examination. "Think closely before you would deny your part." The warning was breathed hot on her cheek. The soft, low voice was more frightening to her than any raised voice would be. He had seen it with grim satisfaction. "I know well of your dealings with Meret Denali, at whose command your son suffered. Did you think no one would see? Laundering money for the Denali organization, smuggling weapons through third-parties to enemies of the Empire, working as information courier for a man working against your people: any of these could warrant a charge of treason, my good lady." Hard sarcasm laced the delivery of the gentle title and then disappeared to chilling finality. "These charges are worthy of death under the Law, and I am marked as your executioner. Hell will reserve place for your repose, and I will be glad to help you see the way." _

_She choked on the attempt to breathe and swooned. He filled a cup of water from the aged bronze faucet and placed it before her. The liquid spilled upon the table as she gripped it in both hands and attempted to bring it to her lips._

"_Have you any reason that I should let you live?"_

"_I-I…" Her eyes, always so hard and bitter, were dimmed with a glittering mesh of dew. "I didn't know…" _

_Noah stepped back, a reproving glint of a smile upon his lips. "You didn't know?" His smile disappeared. "You didn't wish to know, I'd say." He stared at her coldly. "As you do not wish, it seems, to know how your son faired."_

"_How…." She tried to form the words and could not. She looked to her soft hands well-manicured nails. Her voice was barely audible. "Tell me."_

"_Chained. Naked. Dripping with his own blood as his tormentors laughed at his weakness. Torn apart. Ripped apart." _

"_Stop! Please…please…have mercy." Tears splashed upon her pale cheeks. _

"_Mercy?" Noah viewed her as something distasteful and unworthy of pity. "Was it mercy you showed to Kasan when you refused him the courtesy of summons to his father's death bed? When you buried his father without even his knowledge?"_

_She dropped her face into her hands and wept, and the façade of Noah's callousness was splintered with the twinge of his brow._

"_What was it Denali told you he wanted with Kasan?" His voice was ever so slightly gentled. _

_She rubbed her eyes as she struggled to control the sobs that threatened to overtake her. "He said he thought Kasan could help us."_

"_Help you?" Noah scoffed. "Do you count yourself so united then?"_

"_No…I…" Defeated, Haleine's shoulders slumped. "I wanted to make Inar understand…"_

"_Inar is dead."_

"_Yes." She looked at the ring upon her finger as if at a foreign object. "…And he was no more here during life…" Hollow words fell bleakly from her lips._

_Noah watched her stoically. _

"_My son…" She swallowed and winced. "Kasan…is he…is he dead?"_

_Noah reached down to take her tear dampened hand with his own."Kasan is not dead." It was not for comfort when he pressed the palm. When he took his hand away, she looked into the crimson left behind. "As for your son…who can say. Perhaps you have killed the love of the son as your bitterness killed the love of the father."_

_She gasped and pressed the hand to her heart but offered no defense. _

_He watched her with jaded eyes. "Here is where you should tell me all you know of Denali's plans, Madame, unless you'd have me march you down the streets and to prison's keep thus bedecked." He flipped his wrist to indicate her wardrobe, and she gathered the robe more closely around her shoulders for comfort. _

"_Please. I don't know what he intends." The thought of enduring a level of humiliation and ruin beyond what Inar had already heaped upon her raised goose bumps on her skin. _

"_Then I suggest you find out." He moved as if to leave her, and suddenly she was panicked as much by the thought of his deserting her as his coming. _

"_Meret would kill me."_

"_Mmm…" The look Noah gave tried and found her guilty. If she knew to fear for herself, she should have known to fear for Kasan. She dropped her eyes, and he counseled indifferently, "I suggest you play your part well." _

_Although he had come in through what had been the servant's entry, he would exit through the front door. It was a reminder of their readjusted roles. It was a warning that could easily turn to threat. _

"_Madame Ranel…" She followed at a distance, still hugging herself. "If ever you should endanger your son and betray your country again, I'll not withhold my hand. Consider before you betray what it might be like to stand trial in the company of your friends, your sins read out for every hungry ear and repeated by each loose tongue. To die a traitor's fate, shamed and disgraced, before all those you've ever looked down upon. Consider- " He stopped at her smile. Though sad, Haleine's expression held a touch of irony, and Noah was taken aback by the reaction to what should have been a dire threat._

"_You'd not do such a thing." Her words came as though forced from a dry throat, but the tone held a note of confidence._

_He was physically startled. _

_She reviewed him with vacant eyes as she offered explanation. "Noah Gabranth, son of my husband's beloved friend, you'd not disgrace the Ranel name were it I alone who bore it." _

_Noah's fist tightened and a lump rose in his throat. That she should call forth the memory of his mother at such a time as this. And yet, she was right. Was that not why he had come to give Haleine a chance at redemption over chains? "As you say, my lady." His voice was dangerously low. "I'll not author your disgrace." He met her eyes with such violent intensity that she shuddered, afraid she had miscalculated, aware at once in spirit that she'd wandered unwelcome into sacred territory. "But don't think this protects you. Think only that if I judge you worthy of death, the sentence will fall swiftly and silently. You will die alone in some dark, deserted place, and I'll do you the honor of burying you in an unmarked grave where none will know your shame. Your son may wonder now and then what became of you, but I promise you this, the secret will be ours alone for eternity. Look in my eyes and say that you don't believe."_

_Her silence was deafening._

_The door shut behind him with a resounding thud that shook the windows. The beating of his heart echoed in the steel cage of his armor. Citizens on the street parted and fell away from his path, gaping at his bloody armor and shifting their eyes from the stormy gaze escaping the helm. He paid no mind. A swift shift in course, again, again, and again. A quick look around to determine none had followed. The Highway Star stabbed through a curtain of water directed by course from a beautiful fountain over the retaining wall. The grating of stone and the clink of gears sounded. Noah cast one final look about, reclaimed the Highway Star, and stepped through the shimmering veil. _

Noah stared into empty space, lost in the past, as Basch studied the turbulence darkening his brother's eyes as if he was reading a book.

_His armor had been washed just enough by the waterfall to smear the blood and dirt. By the time he had emerged from the underground trail, sidestepping Bergan as he pilfered from the wine cellar, into the hidden bones of the Palace, the water had dried, leaving a soiled film. He could have had the servants polish the plate, but he had needed the task to steady his nerves. By the time he was done, his hands had almost stopped shaking. Then he had seen his image in the mirror, and his stomach had turned. …When it was over…_

"Noah…?" Basch was made uneasy by the bleak clearing in the storm. "Are you well, brother?"

Basch's concerned, if guarded, voice brought Noah back. He met his brother's eyes with a perplexing smile. "Come, Basch. I have something for you."

"Hm?" Why was he so reluctant? Basch hung back, unwilling to find the truth of what Noah wished to share. Then, irritated at his own irrational behavior, Basch shrugged off the disturbance of spirit and approached the book shelf. What after all could it be? A cryptic message hidden in one of the books? Basch thought of the map placed far back in one high shelf and sighed internally. Larsa's thoughtful gift should be treated with more respect and gratitude. He would take it down and place it upon his desk for use.

Noah's voice speaking a phrase foreign to his ears and the soft glow that afterward emitted from a panel upon the wall startled Basch but not as much as when the built-in bookcase shifted to form stairs leading into a freshly revealed opening in the ceiling.

Basch stared into the hole as Noah began to climb. His brother glanced over his shoulder as he neared the top. "Thirty seconds is all you get, Basch. Are you coming?"


	41. The Empire Comes

"It's quite a sight…" Noah stood at Basch's side upon the battlemented parapet, the chilled air sending their frosted breath to hover and then fade into the darkened sky. Above them the banner of House Solidor caught the breeze, and the steady sound of the heavy fabric moving with the invisible tide came to their hearing. Below and before them spread the lights of the Empire of Archadia, an illusion of warmth in the cool night.

"Tis."

Noah had led him through the bones of the Palace, through channels he'd not known existed, speaking of things he must know against possible threat to Larsa's safety. It had occurred to Basch along the way that in his time as Captain of Dalmasca's Castle Knights, desperate to find some way to weaken the Empire's stranglehold over the mid Kingdoms, this information would have been invaluable for other reasons. It had not been so long ago that the robust Empire's secure defenses had limited the council of King Raminas to knowledge gleaned from history, information taken from charts, the fortune of spies, and the fear of captured soldiers… A glance at his brother told him the same lingered in Noah's mind.

"Only the protectors of House Solidor are privy to this knowledge." As they'd entered the passage, Noah had spoken the cautionary words Zecht had passed to his new colleague Judge Magister Gabranth."With our lives, _we_ defend them." None of Zecht's humorous theatrics had accompanied the warning, and Basch could not see the images of days gone by playing out in his brother's mind, but with conflicting sentiments did he take note of Noah's use of the plural. _We…_

The sporadic flow of conversation between them had drifted soon to Meret Denali and the Ranel family, both staying always just this side of specifics dealing with their mother. Yet for all Noah did not say and all that Basch did not ask, at the end of their wandering, they stood together.

If Basch had sought reason for this increased offering of trust, answer could have been found in Noah's guilt over seeing Basch hindered in the matter of Denali and the Ranel family by the secrets he had taken to his supposed grave. He would not see Larsa endangered or his brother's shield broken because of his pride and lies…not again. But there were other reasons.

Though content to see his brother at Larsa's side and at home in a role once his own, Noah could not simply turn off the instinct born of experience. The urgency in his spirit, the points of intrigue that spoke to his mind, the bloody memories of what happens when you fail to mark the threat, would not allow him to walk peacefully away to rest while others carried on. Over and over he had thought of Dimas and Denali and their madness, and over and over he was prompted to look beyond. To what, he was not yet certain, but he had the desire to lay it all out in front of them. Maybe Basch would see something he could not… Maybe together they would get beyond the darkened veil to the truth…

How much had his brother, as Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, known of Imperial subterfuge?

"Basch… You recall the circumstances regarding Nabradia's civil war: how Rozarria was prompted by…_certain acts_ against pro-Rozarrians within the country to come to their aid; how Archadia found it _necessary_ to defend against a possible Rozarrian advance; how this careful setting of the stage led to the fall of Nabradia?"

"I do." Noah could see that Basch understood full well the scheme.

"And then with the death of Raminas coming by the hand of the people's hero…" Noah avoided his twin's startled face, cleared his throat, and continued, "-how Dalmasca was ripe for the reaping?"

"Aye." The response was gruff and delivered with a splinter of the old anger.

There came a long pause as Noah halted the line of discussion, wishing desperately to go on and finding the way made inaccessible by the chasm of betrayal.

They watched the fog of their breathing continue in the silence. Basch removed the helm, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then massaged weary eyes. Noah sighed internally, feeling the same fatigue.

"Do you remember when we were boys, and we'd pretend this-" Noah waved his hand through the dissipating fog of his breathing. The memory of more trusting days came to ease darker recollections.

"-was smoke and we the dragons." Wariness awakened by the mention of the assassination of his sworn liege and his own betrayal eased as Basch finished his brother's thought…just like old times.

"Aye." Noah's smile came swiftly and with relief.

"I remember." Basch sensed his own mood beginning to rise and the doors he'd only just barricaded and barred beginning to unbolt. He rotated the helm between his hands.

They had prolonged their chores on cold nights just so they could play at the game. After finding their cheeks frigid and frost in their hair, they'd been scolded on the possibility of catching their deaths. Their father had offered the idea that the young dragons turn instead to sitting at the hearth and watching their shadows in the flames while tending to their studies. This had led soon to a stern reminder of the danger of playing with fire after an incident with a scorched rug... And the twins played on, characters in their own, private script.

Noah leaned forward to prop his weight against the stone wall. "The boy found one." At Basch's questioning look, Noah clarified. "Faoylyn… He uncovered a dragon, fire-breathing and all."

Instantaneously, Noah lost the weariness of hard fought years, and despite himself, Basch felt his own lips pull back in a boyish grin.

"Truly?" The many creatures of legend, ethereal beings, and wild assortments of deadly oddities they had separately encountered throughout their days as warriors should have rendered a plate wyrm less awe inspiring to the men, but the intertwined memory of childhood wonder returned untainted. Basch could imagine the exhilaration and fright of Noah's young charge at such a discovery as if it was the first of his own.

"Do you remember-?" Basch's eyes sparked.

"Aye." Noah exhaled and watched the thinning cloud until it was gone. "I remember. …We were just about his age…"

It was the summer after their father's passing. All time had been so marked in those days…

"_I saw it, I tell you! Coming this way!"_

_The courier's eyes were large, his face pale, but the townspeople laughed and someone mocked, "Give this man a drink. His brain has been fried by the journey!" _

_Noah and Basch exchanged a curious look and set the heavy boxes of goods upon the counter, waiting as the proprietor checked the inventory and counted out payment for the delivery. "...fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. There you are, lads."_

"_Thank you, sir." Basch secured the pouch of coin to his belt, and Noah inquired after the topic on both their minds. _

"_What is this?"_

"_Eh, dragon talk. Stuff and nonsense." The portly man shooed the subject and them out the door with it._

"_Dragons… I wonder…" Their feet strayed from the road as their eyes searched the sky for any unusual shadow. _

"_Remember the dragon-" Basch's gaze flitted for a moment to his brother, and Noah finished what he'd started. _

"_-that father told us about…" Yes, their father had witnessed a dragon's flight as he traveled on one of his journeys. The one he'd seen had carried with it a purple cloud, and the men had said it was magicked or was able to breathe the night. The merchant ship had steered clear of the beast, watching as it swooped and disappeared behind the clouds, but the tale was the best treasure Eben brought back to them. One day, he had promised them, they'd see such things together-their mother also, if she might be persuaded to join the three of them on their travels. Noah looked pensively to his twin and both turned their attention back toward the sky as they made the trek from town. _

_A weary boy enduring a man's day, Basch yawned and his eyes skipped on to the path ahead. His body jerked with sudden surprise, and the erratic movement alerted his twin. Both stared, mouths agape, as they observed the hulking creature, wings spread to sweep a wide swath along the earth, serpentine neck swiveling and stretching high toward the tree tops, spiked spine rolling like a bladed wheel in rhythm with the steady movement of the steel-clawed stride. Jaws unhinged, the armored breast of the beast expanded as it drew a mighty breath. _

"_Run, Basch." The instinct of preservation must include protection for twin self and forced the warning, but Noah's voice was barely audible. Shock muted his tone and made his tongue stick to the bed of his mouth. _

"_Run now!" Basch was stirred to action by his brother's words, and the command he shouted was an order to his own feet as well as his brother's to leave their cemented places. _

_Basch grabbed Noah's arm, but his brother needed no encouragement or direction. "That way!" Noah set the compass of their flight away from the town and away from the fields primed for burning. As one, they sprinted toward the stream and the rocky cliff beds. _

_Behind them they heard the cries of the people as the alarm rang out. "Inside! Inside, now!" The order came from a member of the Landisian Guard. The frantic call was echoed by every caring parent and responsible elder sibling in the region. And yet, while everyone else retreated, the fon Ronsenburg twins ran forward. _

"_Wait-" Basch suddenly skidded to a halt, and Noah reversed course to meet him._

"_It's not-"_

"_Have to-"_

_The creature was ignoring their efforts and preparing for flight toward the town, pausing only to roar the promise of destruction._

"_Here-"_

"_Quick!"_

_The conversation, made up of bits and pieces, would have been incoherent to others but was complete between them. They stooped to gather stones, tossing them with all the strength of their lean arms against the heavy scales of the creature, watching as they rebounded like pebbles of hail. _

_The dragon ruffled its wings restlessly, and they thought they'd failed, but then the beast whirled toward them, and again they ran._

_This time they could feel the wind from the creature's wings as it hovered and glided just above the earth, swooping toward them. They could feel the heat as fire spurted toward their heels. _

"_Noah-"_

"_Right."_

_They parted, synchronized, becoming swiftly darting prey that left the creature confused. The boys swerved in and out, crossing paths as they raced through the stream, and behind them the flame only danced across the water as the dragon lost focus and aim._

_Their hearts pounded so that scarcely they heard the sound of the Guard, the clank of armor and weaponry, the stride and calls of their Chocobos, as each was added to the mix. And though they each felt the adrenaline of fear, there was no denying that it was excitement that fueled them._

_As Basch and Noah escaped into the cliffs, arrows flew and fell ineffectually around the Dragon, and the beast screamed in anger. _

"_Look, Basch!" So excited by the scene was Noah that his hand dug into his brother's arm. So excited was Basch at the scene that he didn't feel the pain that spread where later a bruise would stain the skin. _

_The dragon rose above the cliffs among a rain of arrows and returned a shower of flame upon the shields of the Guard's front-line defense._

_Reaching out in fury, the powerful jaw snatched a Chocobo, shaking the doomed mount as its rider was flung like a doll._

"_Ah!"_

"_Oh…"_

_The grimace on each face was relieved when the rider stumbled to his feet and crawled back from the fight. _

_When the dragon's strong wings unfurled like sheets of metal slicing across the horizon to beat down upon the soldiers and cast a fierce shadow upon the ground below, for a moment the boys' excitement turned to worry for their countrymen. And then at last, among the barrage of arrows, one found a fatal weakness in the exposed throat and the creature shuddered and was brought down for a killing blow._

_The soldiers, relieved to find none of their number charred, cheered their triumph, put out a few small fires before they could spread from stony land to fertile field, and removed one of the dragon's claws to give as trophy to the one credited with the fatal shot._

_The twins had watched as the injured guard accepted a ride from one of his fellows and moved sadly away from his fallen mount. The rest of the group rode off victoriously to share their daring tale in detail sure to be enhanced in the telling and even more by the retellings of admiring townsfolk. _

_When the soldiers were still within sight, the fon Ronsenburg boys raced forward, knowing full well now that the danger was removed they would soon be joined by their friends and neighbors and wanting to be first on the scene._

_Before them the creature loomed, a hill of plate and bone. Basch reached out to touch the hard scales, warm still. Noah tested the mound and climbed up to sit between the wings. He offered his own and caught Basch's hand, pulling his brother up to join him. They stroked the plates, feeling the slick spots turn to dips and grooves, and then left to complete their assigned task when the townspeople came into view. _

_Amid the thrill of the experience, there had been a thread of grief between them, driving Noah to ask his brother, "Basch…do you think the dragon father saw still lives?" and prompting Basch to answer, "Yes…I'm sure of it."_

"…So, the boy found a dragon…" Basch put away the bittersweet memory.

Noah laughed lightly. "It's a miracle the beast didn't burn down the house and have us all as a snack."

"The wyrm gave you challenge?" The white of Basch's teeth flashed. The dragon might have given the Landisian Guard a test, but Captain fon Ronsenburg or Judge Magister Gabranth? Sentimental remembrances of younger days and not trials for such as them. True, there might yet linger ancient, Great Wyrms that could offer a contest. Indeed, when traveling with Vaan and Penelo, the Lady Ashe, Balthier and Fran, it had taken the entire party to best the Ring Wyrm, three to fight and three to ensure the others did not die from the beast's harmful effects... …There was no need for Noah to hear that tale.

Noah sniffed, embarrassment driving his defense. "I was still in a weakened state from my wounds, brother."

The reminder of the events surrounding his supposed death threatened to end the exchange, but Basch brushed away the approaching seriousness. "As you are here, and Sir Jolon and the child appear unharmed, I imagine the same cannot be said of the dragon…"

The look of a warrior grown wise and weary by the years of battle slipped back onto Noah's face, but his reply came with an easy tilt of the lips. "Afraid not." Noah reclined his elbows on the surface and his chin upon laced fingers. "…I salvaged plates and the dragon's horn for the boy. I thought he might like something to remember…"

Basch smiled. "Such an experience is not the kind of thing a boy is likely to forget."

Noah chuckled. "No…"

The exchange came to an awkward halt and skipped uncomfortably through the trail of their separate thoughts.

"Hm?"

"What?"

The inherent link they'd once shared had been battered by separation, strained by distance, and wounded by betrayal, and still intuitively their senses prompted them, attempting to close the gap and restore the conduit.

"I thought…"

"No…"

The stars were brightening against the sky. Just another night in the Empire.

"How strange that we are here…" Basch broke the silence. "I'd never have thought it then…" His eyes drifted toward where once was home and missed the conflicted emotion crossing his brother's face.

"_Whatever else is said of the Empire, my childhood was happy there. One day, in peaceful times, I would like to take you to visit my homeland and show you for myself." _

That was before, when Landis still had hope… How long had it been after she'd spoken those words that Landis had been no more? Days? A week at the most?_  
_After months of whispered rumors and murmured fears concerning the increased tension between the great Empires and what it might mean for the mid Kingdoms of Ivalice, overnight (overpowered and overwhelmed by the swift, absolute hand of Archadian power), Landis had fallen.

_How the guard had trembled, eyes wide and skin pale as a ghost, as he spoke the words in choked, hushed terror. "It's all over, Madame. The Empire has come."_

What would she say now to see him here? He couldn't help but smile softly. She'd be glad to see them together. His eyes slid toward his brother. …To see them together…

The reasons he had abandoned home and kin, as his brother charged and he could not deny, to fight against the Empire…had he fulfilled them before coming to this place? It had never been about Minister or Republic, King or Kingdom. It had then, as it did now, matter less the plot of land and the possessions than it hinged on the intangible something that cannot be captured or kept.

"_Basch." Noah jerked his head toward the street corner ahead. A woman was weeping and seemed nearly to faint as her fraught husband tried to calm and corral her away from the conspicuous quarter. Their daughter, who along with her brother was a friend of the fon Ronsenburg twins, was with them. A group of curious onlookers and worried neighbors had stepped from their doors and were cautiously making their way to the scene. All it took was a warning from the leader of the Imperial Knights stationed along the street, and the concerned advance stopped. One by one the people returned to their businesses and homes, pretending they did not hear or see._

_Without knowing what had occurred, both sensed the acute degree of seriousness, and a look was exchanged between the twins._

_At almost seventeen, the fon Ronsenburg twins were tall and lean, pale under moonlight and bronzed in the sun. Their hair was a field of wheat by day and shimmering honey in the evening candle-fire. Their eyes sparkled blue and clouded to gray, depending on the shadows and their mood. By their mother's declaration to doubting friend and disbelieving neighbor, there were clear differences between the two, but only the mother's eye could readily find them out. Even those whose houses had been acquainted with the fon Ronsenburgs since before the birth of the twins would rarely risk calling either boy by name and finding their determination wrong. _

_Maybe it was for this reason that the now young men had newly taken to changing their grooming habits to emphasize their individuality. Perhaps, the mother suspected, there was being made an attempt to stand out to the blossoming young ladies that worked to catch either's eye. Basch had been cultivating the freshest beginnings of a flaxen beard. Noah had begun nurturing what he indulgently called a goatee and was experimenting with sideburns. Noah had tried parting his hair to the right and then the left, but when the locks rebelliously sprang back day after day, had impulsively cut his mane to a mess of short, shaggy waves. Basch had grown his locks out past his shoulders and often plated a portion to secure it back from his face. Where they never used to bother with which clothes were whose, now when Basch wore blue, Noah wore red, and Delara, with a mother's mix of pride and regret at seeing her children grow, had ceased her affectionate habit of buying everything for her sons in matching sets. _

_Despite the attempt to define themselves singly, the fon Ronsenburg boys or Eben's sons they were called. And they were still so rarely apart that when one entered alone a place of business on an errand for mother or an employer, the proprietor was apt to ask, "Where's your brother, boy? Is he ill?" _

_Spying them easing their way near, the girl motioned them to change course. Seeming carefully to have no interest in what was causing everyone else anxiety, the brothers diverted through an ally between buildings and escaped the main street. _

_They knew where she'd be. At one time or another in the past couple of years, each of the brothers had enjoyed a stolen kiss with the young lady there. Still she called to them as they scampered down the sloped ground to join her in the underpass. "Here!" If a whisper could also be a shout, hers was in this cautious hour._

"_Shh. No need to draw attention…" Basch's warning trailed off as the brothers saw her reddened eyes and face speckled with blood dots from too much heavy crying. _

"_What is it?" Noah went to her at once, stroking her hair and pulling her close. Basch heard the same fear in his brother's voice that he felt in his heart. _

"_What is it?" This time it was Basch's voice, tight with tension and gruff with dread. _

"_It's Cloy." Grief started her tears afresh. _

"_Nedi, what happened? Tell us." Noah kissed her forehead and cupped her blotched face in his hands. "Just tell us."_

_The last time they'd seen her brother, their friend and their elder by two winters, he had caught their attention as they were walking by a storefront. His arms had been full of a box of fruit, but when he'd seen them, Cloy had tilted his head, and they had followed. Their friend had turned off into an alleyway and propped the box against the wall and one knee as he reached into his vest and pulled out a multipage leaflet. He had given them each a knowing look, scratched the wiry hair sprouting in thin patches along his jawline, and hefted the box to his shoulder. "Don't read it here," he'd said as he passed the bill into Basch's hands. "And don't leave it lying around. You never know…"_

"_Father warned him not to get involved, but he just wouldn't listen." She sobbed and wiped her eyes and dripping nose on Noah's tunic. _

"_What's he done?" Basch leaned toward her, urging her toward the point."What is it?"_

"_He said he was going to fight for Landis. All he did was get himself killed." Anger mixed with anguish in the young lady's eyes. "And now what happens to the rest of us?"_

_Hit like a punch to the gut by news of their friend's death, they'd stumbled through offerings of condolences and had meant to see the girl home, but she had sent them away. "The Imperials are watching the property and what's left of my family now. There's no need to endanger your home, your mother-" _

_Noah kissed her cheek and reluctantly let go of her hand, watching her with grieved eyes._

"_- or make them suspect you."_

_The line of Basch's brow darkened his eyes, but he smoothed the wrinkled sleeve of her dress, and watched her part from them as he remained at Noah's side._

_The two had found their way home by an unmarked route, dropping to the earth amid stalks of grain more than once to avoid the possibility of being spotted by the Imperial patrol. _

"_This is wrong." Basch growled, brushing the dirt from his garments. "We hide like fugitives and run like cowards in our own backyard to avoid the ire of those who have stolen our lives."_

_The elected leaders of Landis had been imprisoned, and Imperial military officers were now the overseers of the territory once called Landis. Once. Now the citizens traded where they were told to trade and with whom for what amount. They paid their tribute to the Emperor in hopes he wouldn't take all. They reported their wealth, their belongings, their investments to the Empire and must be thankful for whatever portion they were allowed to retain. They traveled only where allowed and when permission was approved. The newspapers printed only stories favorable to the invaders, for any who spoke out found their property seized, their purse emptied, and their person dragged off to prison. Citizens hid weapons and hid coin. They kept their children close and kept their eyes turned down even as the Empire claimed that peaceable citizens would be cared for and received as its own. Some had turned to accepting these supposed gifts, not seeing that they disrobed and walked naked into the lion's den. Or such it seemed to Basch. Whatever the Empire claimed, it was clear to his eyes that there was no freedom, for the people were not free to determine their own fate._

_Noah was silent, eyes unfocused, and Basch saw his mind was elsewhere. _

"_Noah?"_

"_I was just thinking of Cloy and his family. What was __he__ thinking of, I wonder?" Frustration and skepticism marked Noah's tone and manner._

"_At least he did something." The defiance in Basch's voice surprised them both._

"_But Nedi is right. What did he do but die?" _

"_What would you have had him do? Accept the fates?" _

"_You saw his mother, Basch. She may not recover from the loss. And what if they hold his father accountable? The family estate and possessions could be confiscated. What then if the family is turned out? Even if not, who will help his father now in the trade? And what of Nedi? I don't even want to consider… And all this because Cloy decided he couldn't wait to throw his life away on some futile scheme." As Noah listed the reasons for his vexation with their fallen friend's choice, his voice hardened._

"_Not because of Cloy. Because of the Empire." Basch took exception and stopped in the path to block the way. "Don't forget who is really to blame! Should we just hold our tongues and sit on our hands for fear of offending Empire? I grieve for the family, Noah, but let us not diminish what Cloy hoped to gain." _

"_What did he hope to gain, Basch, a few untrained men against an army?"_

"_There are remnants of the Landisian Guard leading the fighters."_

_Noah's eyes sharply focused on Basch's. _

"…_so I hear." Basch looked away and the two moved on in silence until their own property line was in sight. _

_The sight of Imperial troops moving along the road brought Noah to a halt. "You destroyed the paper Cloy gave us?"_

"_Burned it."_

_Noah inhaled deeply as he considered the circumstances and exhaled slowly. "Good. They may check the houses. It wouldn't do to raise suspicion." He looked toward Basch and was met with a frown. _

"_This is how you wish to live, Noah? A coward, always hiding in shadows? Never speaking the truth of your mind? You prefer safety to freedom?"_

_It was then Noah's fist found his face. _

"_How dare you." Anger the like Basch had not heard from his twin, or at least not directed his way, burned from Noah's eyes and caused a quiver in the sparsely disguised chin._

_The blow was not delivered with enough force to knock Basch from his feet, but it was enough that he spat blood and wiped knuckles against his lips and teeth to stop the flow. _

"_You think I like living this way? No! I hate it as much as you, brother. As much as you!" Noah shoved Basch's shoulder for emphasis, and Basch, shock having worn off, returned the favor with a more forceful strike. _

"_Then why do you decry a man for fighting for freedom and hope, brother? Why do you not honor his sacrifice?"_

_Noah rubbed his chest where the blow had landed as he scoffed and then grew melancholy. "Cloy was my friend too, Basch. …And I wish I could…" His voice grew husky, and he stopped to draw a ragged breath. " He met Basch's eyes bleakly. "There was no way he could win. I see no point to it." _

"_And what point is there, Noah, to live as a slave, captured and confined, kept as a pet so long as we comply with every whim and obey every command? Cloy was trying to offer his family something better than just to survive and die. He wanted to give them some hope to live for."_

"_Is that what he was trying to do? Is that what he was trying to give them? He did so well, don't you think?" Noah's harsh cynicism brought a look of severe disapproval and acute disappointment from his twin. _

"_The family suffers now, I know…" Basch quieted, made sad by the thought. "And yet they suffered before, Noah, as do we all in silence. Maybe it's better…"_

_Noah looked at him aghast, and Basch flushed._

"_I don't mean to say… …But then, at least Cloy remembered that there is something worth dying for. At least he didn't just give up. Maybe in the end, that is better…" _

_They walked on to their home still together but with an increased distance not only of space between them, and each was lost to his own thoughts as he entered beside and apart from the other. _

"_Basch, Noah, are you safe?" Her voice was strained, and she reached for them. At seeing Basch's stained lips, Delara gasped, "Oh, my! What's happened to you?"_

_Noah turned guilty eyes to his brother and found a matching set on him._

"_I'm fine, mother. Really."_

"_Are you?" Delara breathed shallowly and put a hand to her chest. _

"_Mother?" Maybe it was just the stress of the times, but she seemed weary and had grown thin, taking to bed more than to the sunlight some days. If in the past years since their father's demise they turned to worrying over her as much as she worried over them, all the more so now._

"_Oh, it's nothing." She smiled. "Nerves, I expect. …Did you hear…? So young. …so young…" Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes. _

_They came to her, the three of them with their arms intertwined, grieving for the loss of Cloy's life and much more. _

_There had been no more talk of death, of Landis, or the Empire as they worked together through their chores and as they sat next to one another at the family's evening meal. But though the brothers had silently come to a truce, for love of her, the distance of their own thoughts remained._

_The separation was not yet meant to last between them._

"…_Basch," Noah had been sitting on his bed when he'd emerged from the shower later that night. _

"_Noah?" Basch stopped towel-drying his long hair and tossed the damp cloth aside. When Noah raised his eyes... "Noah…"_

_Noah flinched but ignored his brother's eyes. "I just need you to understand…"_

_Basch nodded. What else could he do? _

"_Basch." Noah looked up at him, his eyes searching out his twin's. "I know… I know, you think I don't care enough…"_

"_Noah-" Basch shook his head in protest. _

"_I care, Basch. I wish I could make things right. Put things back the way they were…" _

"_I know… As do I..." Basch knew his twin was only winding his way toward the purpose and so waited. _

_Noah stood, shoving his hands through his tangled waves as he choked out the words, tears glistening in his eyes. "You said Cloy had found something worth fighting and dying for, but I already know my price." Hands dropped to fists at his side. "I would fight for our mother. …I would fight for you, brother..." The fists unclenched. "To the death…for those I love…and never regret. I am not afraid to die, Basch. It's just… what hope is there…what good would freedom be if I failed her…if I failed…?" He looked away and then back to his brother, spent. "I just don't want it to be for nothing…"_

"_I know, Noah. I don't doubt you." Basch closed the distance between them, wrapping his brother in a tight embrace. "Brother, let us never fight against one another." _

_Basch was comforted when Noah's hand wrapped around the back of his neck and he heard his brother's broken whisper in his ear, "How could I war against myself?" _

Noah watched Basch's jaw tighten and his brow flex. Though he couldn't read his brother's heart line by line as once it had seemed, much was sensed. Like a wave crashing against him, he felt the turbulence of his brother's spirit. Noah drew a pained breath and looked away.

Basch looked out into the darkness. If they'd known then that in less than a month they'd face a divide that would last for more years than they'd then lived…? He glanced toward Noah and saw him staring grimly into nothingness.

"_You're seeing Nedi again? Isn't that four nights this week?" A glint of surprise and a dash of curiosity that bordered on suspicion came to Noah's eyes, but he shrugged and laughed lightly. "Well, if you're getting this serious, I guess I'd better keep my distance." _

_Basch flushed, partly with embarrassment and partly with guilt. The combination worked in his favor, for his brother read the mix as having to do with Basch stealing the lady's once equally shared affection. _

"_Eh, don't worry about it, Basch. She's sweet, but I don't think she's meant for me."_

_Basch felt the guilt eating at his insides. He was doing the right thing…wasn't he? Noah wouldn't want to be involved, would only try to stop him, would be in danger simply from knowing… It would only lead to conflict between them. Yes, it was better this way. And yet…_

"_Noah." _

"_Yeah?" _

_Noah bucked a bale of hay into the Chocobo lot. They were lucky to still have the few remaining beasts and would sell them as soon as they could find a fair buyer...if they didn't mysteriously disappear from the field first. Not only did the Imperials feel it was their right to commandeer what they claimed to need, a faction of their own countrymen had turned to lawlessness, taking from their neighbors to satisfy their own loss or greed. It was the height of irony that they must now depend on the Imperial soldiers to protect them from their own.  
_

"_...I don't know... I was just thinking about when we were kids. When father was here and we were all together…"_

_Noah came to sit beside him, and the pain of their impending separation crushed like a giant's fist around Basch's heart. _

_Noah seemed to feel his brother's anxiousness and reached over to put an arm loosely around Basch's shoulders. _

_Basch stumbled for words. What was it he wanted to say? What could he say to explain what he couldn't explain? "Things change. It's natural…" They sat on the fence watching a pair of gangly Chocobo chicks at play . "Infants grow…become adults…have children of their own…"_

_Noah's arm left his brother's shoulder, and he almost fell off the fence. "Basch! You, er… Nedi isn't…pregnant?"_

"_What?" Confusion melted into the heat of embarrassment and ended in denial. "No! No!" His laughter was laced with panic, but when he could breathe again, he spoke. "I was just…you know…thinking."_

"…_Okay…" Noah was unconvinced, and Basch knew his brother would find him out if they followed this path of conversation much further. _

"…_We used to talk about the journeys we were going to take with father. Remember?" _

"_Yes, I remember." Noah settled with a comfortable sigh, and Basch watched with sad affection as his brother spoke. "We were going to be merchant kings, you and I. …Sail out past the bounds of Landis in an airship branded with our own colors." Noah shot him a smile, and Basch felt his own attempt to match it fail. "All the sights we'd see..."_

_Basch swallowed the lump in his throat, but it immediately returned. _

"_Who knows, Basch. You always talk about hope… Maybe it will still happen…" Noah gave his brother's knee a comforting pat. _

_Basch could not speak. He could barely breathe._

"…_If you don't go and get married and have five kids first." Noah had jumped off the fence as Basch threw a weak punch in protest, and the Chocobos scattered. _

_And Basch had seen Nedi. That was the only way he'd kept the secret, by hiding it in the truth. He'd not have been able to lie to Noah directly, but if he saw the maiden on his way to the gathering, it wasn't really a lie…was it?_

_Even knowing the eventuality of what was being talked about, Basch wasn't prepared for the news shared that night in the clandestine meeting. As a small number of former Landisian Guards and a hand full of loyal sons and daughters of Landis hunkered in the cave, their unofficial leader proclaimed, "We have failed Landis. Between the Empire, traitors, and thieves, there is no hope. But for the other free Kingdoms, hope remains. It is for them that we must now fight, so that what befell Landis does not come to them. We must do our part to strengthen their numbers and shore up their defenses. Who is with me?"_

_Basch had felt the air in his lungs dry up, but still he raised his hand. He had already set his mind that this was the right thing. There was no turning back now._

"_And now that the decision is made, we cannot linger. To do so endangers our families and our plans. We leave tonight under cover of darkness. The less our loved ones know the better, for our sakes and for theirs. You know the meeting place. Don't be late, or you'll be left behind." _

_From the shelter of the trees, he had stood outside their home, staring at the light shining from the room he and Noah shared. For the better part of an hour he watched. Half of him wanted to rush up the stairs and spill everything to his brother, to plead for forgiveness and ask for blessing in this cause. The other side of him pulled back, afraid he'd not be strong enough to hold out in the face of his twin's certain wrath and grief. What if forgiveness wouldn't come and blessing wasn't offered? He did not want their last goodbye to be a bitter one. …Their last goodbye… The thought ripped his heart like a dagger had carved it in twain._

_And then he saw the light go dark… _

_It had been difficult enough telling her, more so than he'd imagined. Seeing her tears as he explained his purpose had battered his resolve to be strong. "Forgive me, mother. … I just can't let freedom die without trying… There is still hope for Dalmasca, and I want to help. I want to do my part."_

"_My Basch…always so brave." She leaned against the table and dropped into the chair, but she smiled up at him tenderly. And then her smile weakened. "…What of your brother? Will he go with you?" The fear of it was in her eyes, but she tried to hide the worry of being alone and the torment of losing two sons in one night._

"_...We want the same things, but…" Basch struggled as his spirit rebelled at the bond being torn asunder. "He would not leave, and I cannot stay."_

"_You…haven't told him?"_

_Basch slowly shook his head. "I cannot."_

"_Basch…" He could not fail to understand the gentle admonition._

"_Mother, please... How could I say goodbye?" _

_She laced her fingers and tried to steady herself. He watched her with deep and genuine remorse for the suffering he was causing, but he had already stepped into the rushing stream and was pulled along in the powerful tide, unable to change course.  
_

_Her hair was golden in the candlelight. The tears on her cheeks were pearls, her lips soft petals off the rose. But there were lines and a faint bruising beneath the eyes that had not been until recently. Her face was thinner. Her hands looked no longer young. She coughed and he filled her crystal goblet with water, but she neglected the glass of shimmering liquid. _

"_I was so surprised when I learned I was to have twins. And a little frightened, I admit. And then I began to imagine that I'd have two little girls. Oh, the beautiful things I'd make for them… Next I imagined one of each, a daughter for me and a son for your father. It was such a perfect scene in my head." She managed a laugh that was full of tears. "And then the midwife placed a son in each arm. Surprised? Oh, yes! But so happy. You were so alike that your father was never sure in the early days which he held. …But I knew. I knew..." She viewed him tenderly. "I love my boys…and neither less. …I'm so proud…as your father would also be…"_

_The tears were rebelliously overflowing as he put his arm about her. "Noah is part of me and I am a part of him. As long as he is with you, I am with you. Remember that…" He shuddered, trying to hold back the grief that was taking hold. _

_She had kissed his cheek, and he felt her tears. "Keep us with you in your heart. Please, be safe, my dear one. My Basch. I love you."_

"_Love you, mother." He spoke the words through his clenched teeth, turned, and started for the door. For a moment he paused at the stairwell, looking up. His feet took him up the familiar path to stand in the doorway. Noah was snoring lightly, a peaceful expression upon his face, and Basch just stood and watched the pulse of his breathing. As if sensing his brother's eyes through the fog of sleep, Noah began to stir, turned on his side toward the door, and stretched. Basch fled the scene with silent, swift steps. He could not say goodbye. _

"_Please, Noah," he had whispered into the darkness," I need you to understand…"_

As if hearing his brother's words through distance and time, Noah straightened and then tensed with a grimace as his back muscles seized.

Basch sensed at once the intake of breath. "You have not yet mended," he accused. His voice was gruff with the emotion stirred from memory.

Noah dismissed Basch's concern and gave a dry laugh. "Is it not the more remarkable that I have mended at all, considering?"

"You are better than expected, tis true. " Basch's response was mild but reserved. He would never forget the weakening grasp of the hand in his own.

"Emperors may plan, and physicians may work, but it was the will of the boy that made the difference…" Noah smiled softly.

"The boy Faolyn..." Basch continued to watch Noah closely. "Known before the throne of Dalmasca as your _son_."

Noah shifted and Basch detected guilt and regret in his stance.

"It was a lie born of fear for my fate. His is a kind heart, and attachments were made while my mind was too clouded to recognize the danger to him… The blame is mine. He should not have been drawn into this madness." In the tender, protective defense, Basch heard more than the words alone could tell.

"I am glad for the part the boy has played." Basch spoke gently, and Noah reacted with unvoiced surprise.

Basch's jaw worked as if he would like to speak further if he dared… And perhaps he was braver now than he'd been once… "…I am glad that you are here, brother." He reached out and touched Noah's shoulder lightly before dropping his hand.

The carefully casual expression on Noah's face flickered like a fire pulses at the end of its time, fighting to overcome and being forced to give in. Sadness returned to his eyes, but he viewed his brother as if memorizing once more the face he'd known before any other. "And I you, Basch… And I you."

They each leaned against the stone, comfortable in silence, and watched their frosted breath take shape and thin to nothingness again and again. If not for the darkening of the sky, it would have seemed time had stopped.

…There had been one more stop he had made before he abandoned Landis for Dalmasca. …One more blessing he had sought…

When Basch finally spoke, it was hesitantly. "…Is our father's resting place still there?"

Noah's hands tightly gripped the stone. "I know not."

"Two decades spent in the Empire…and you know not?" Disapproval replaced affection in Basch's voice, and his posture changed to expose disdain.

"Have you been to see _her_?" Noah's tone was colder than the night air atop this high tower. The air released from his lips was controlled and measured like the moving of his chest.

Basch, shamed, looked away, and his manner softened to grief. "A just wound, brother. I have no answer…and no excuse."

Noah's eyelids pressed tightly as he struggled to a decision. Finally he inhaled deeply, resignation in the stoop of his shoulders. "That part of Landis is all abandoned fields and wild flowers now, Basch, or it is when the military isn't using it as a training ground. Warehouses and supply centers… Facilities for the war hounds…" He shrugged at the futility of going on and confessed, "…Perhaps I would rather think the spot survives than to find that it does not."

Basch felt the scar over his brow twinge. He would have to understand, or he would have to explain. "I understand."

"I must see to the boy."

Basch leaned once more against the wall, indicating he meant to linger.

Noah cleared his throat. "You recall the words?"

"Fac fortia et patere." Slightest annoyance slipped onto Basch's lips. _Could he remember the words… _Heh.

Noah stalled. The thought that they might dissect the secrets of Ivalice and between them solve this mystery that kept them all on edge had fled at the look on Basch's face when he'd breached the subject of the Kingslayer, but perhaps there was another way…

"Basch… You should speak to Zargabaath…" Noah raked his teeth over his bottom lip as he contemplated what more to say. Although they were entirely alone, his voice dropped. "Ask him about Cassiel and Aleron Solidor. Ask him who was responsible for their deaths."

Officially it had been reported that the eldest sons of Gramis Solidor died together in battle. There had been rumors of something more sinister, a Rozarrian assassination, perhaps. But the Empire had kept an impenetrable wall around the circumstances of the event, and Dalmasca had never cared to disprove the authorized account. In truth, their deaths had not been grievous news in the halls of Dalmasca where so often they had mourned the death's of the next in line to the King's throne. Basch turned to get a glimpse at his twin's expression that might help him see through the haze of Noah's cryptic words, but the darkness was a shield.

"And, Basch…if his answer is Vayne…ask again." And then Noah was gone before Basch could react.

Basch felt again the absence of his twin and his own solitary station, but he rested in the silence and let the stillness of the calm engulf him. The stars flickered brightly, splashed across their velveteen blanket. His eyes slowly turned again to look toward what once was home.

It was his father he saw in the stillness, laughing…free.

* * *

"How is he?" Noah whispered so as not to wake either boy, for Larsa had fallen asleep while reading to the other lad.

It was not lost on the elderly guardian observing all that the one before him saw first to Faolyn, smoothing back the thick, pale cords of hair to test the temperature of the brow. The concern and fondness were clear.

"He is growing stronger, and his pulse is steady. When he has fully rested, he will wake. Let him be."

Noah shot the old man a perturbed glare. Only after readjusting the blanket covering the boy, stroking the pale hand, and whispering a few words of encouragement too low for other ears, did he move reluctantly away. Next he turned to Larsa, and the old man noted the change. Tender but grieved devotion marked Noah's treatment of the child Emperor. Respectfully he removed the book from Larsa's hand, eased the slender fingers to the boy's chest, and placed the volume upon the shelf. He next took a velvet coverlet and draped it lightly across the boy's curled form. Finally, he stood with hands behind his back, looking down upon the lad, near but distant.

"For goodness sake, don't hover. "

Noah scowled. "The Palace hasn't improved your temperament, _Sir Jolon_."

"Nonsense. I was quite contented until you barged in."

Noah sighed heavily, exasperated. "Fine. If the boy awakens or takes a turn-"

Jolon did not ask for which boy the request was intended. He knew. "Yes, yes. I am certain one of the legions of Knight roaming about will be glad to inform you if the child but stirs."

Noah growled beneath his breath and moved again toward Faolyn, lingering worry betrayed in the clenching of his jaw. He brought curled fingers up to his face, bothering with his lips and facial hair as he pondered anxiously.

"By my word, you are as bad as an old nursemaid!" The old man scoffed loudly, and there was a rustle of movement as Larsa shifted beneath the throw. Both fell silent, and Larsa submitted to dreams.

"Heh." Noah sneered slightly in the old man's direction but held his tongue, and after touring the rooms to ensure no threat and looking once more in on first the one and then the other boy, he gave the elder his wish and his way.

Just before the heavy door glided to a close, Noah heard the old man exclaim, "Thanks be!"

"Gabranth."

His mind on the child, he heard the footfalls, but both the weight of the step and the length of the pace were familiar and not sensed as a threat until the spoken address wakened Noah too late to the need for secrets.

"Zargabaath."

Noah's address was calm and steady, and he didn't break stride, willing Zargabaath to continue on his stoic, orderly way.

"Ah, but a moment, Gabranth."

Noah bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood, so angry he was with himself for having allowed such a dangerous encounter to take place. "Your Honor?" He halted and half turned, keeping visual of his face minimized and hoping that Zargabaath's message would be characteristically brief and concise, allowing him to lessen the damage. …He would have to inform and prepare Basch to avoid inconsistencies in their interactions with the officer; Zargabaath was no fool. Inwardly Noah groaned and again cursed his lack of vigilance.

"I assume you have a plan for our priority prisoner?"

Noah's pulse quickened. Prisoner?

"I hear he has taken to refusing food, whether from protest or attempt at self-destruction. As this man has aided in assassinating the only other prisoner taken with breath from the scene, and is now our only tangible link to the attempt on Madame Ranel's life, perhaps indeed to this business on the border…" With a fluid wave of the hand, Zargabaath swept the analysis aside, addressing Noah's current attire. "Ah, but clearly you have readied yourself in this manner to keep our captive unsettled as to your intent."

Noah scarcely breathed. " Your Honor."

"I leave you then to your task." Zargabaath nodded respectfully and continued on his way, lines crinkling about his eyes and the smallest of smiles playing about his sober lips.

Noah stood frozen, his eyes darting back and forth with his rapidly flowing thoughts. Momentarily, he glanced in the general direction from whence he'd come. And then the shield slid over his eyes, steeling his gaze and setting his path.

As Noah found his way to the place not fit for Larsa's eyes, Basch emerged from between the skin and bones of the Palace to walk through the cavernous hallways with their polished inlays of stone. His route, lined with Knights so straight and still they could be mistaken for decorative statues but otherwise deserted, took him toward the suite assigned to Larsa's aged uncle and the boy Faolyn. His intention was that of confirming Larsa's present safety, but the shadow of his colleague up ahead caught his eye, and Basch thought of his brother's cryptic suggestion in regard to the officer. "Judge Magister Zargabaath, a word?"

Zargabaath turned and smiled calmly, motioning that his fellow officer join him. "As you will, Gabranth."


	42. Unmasked

The music swelled and faded and soared again in a tragic bond of formality and feeling. The lights caught the mirrored globes spinning above and splashed a rainbow of color around the ballroom. The costumed figures swirling around the floor were bathed in a prism of light, their already painted faces washed in greens, gold, and blues. Feathers, sequins, and satins of every shade mixed with brilliant bronze, stately silver, and darkened steel armor, all kissed and stained by the glare. The distorted picture created was one of near madness. The atmosphere was festive and spirited in a way that was barely controlled. And there, standing like one of the marble statues littering the grand ballroom, was Vayne. He wore no mask, and yet his features seemed no more lifelike than the disguises concealing his invited guests; no more real than the ghastly figures of stone adding to the tilted atmosphere.

He stared with unforgiving eyes across the room, and for a single, solitary moment, his father looked back at him with regret etched in every deepening line of his proud face. And then Gramis beckoned to the Judge Magister at his side, and the two continued on their way.

They walked in silence until they were well passed the warped scene. When finally Gramis spoke, it was in such hushed tones that Zargabaath had to strain to hear the words. "That he should choose to hold a Masquerade Ball to commemorate the anniversary of the fall of his brothers... Another twist of the blade."

* * *

"Halt or die, cur!" The knight reached for his sword, a sneer of defiance upon his lips. They'd not be fooled again.

"Your men are awake if not alert, Captain." Noah directed his dry comments to the knight leader staring with narrowed eyes at the scene. Beneath the gaze, Noah felt the rebellious strands peeking from the steel gray hood and cursed the untrimmed locks and unmarred brow that could divide him from his clean-cut, scarred reflection to a discerning eye.

…A sharp dagger could be remedy to both. What would Basch say if he corrected that difference? Nothing pleasant, certainly. …How is it that from a singular seed of thought can spring both guilt and satisfaction?

With all the possibilities tossed to the hand of fate, Noah strode with the authority of command toward the bewildered guard who would block his way.

"Judge Magister Gabranth!" Recognizing the voice, the knight started and took an uncertain step back. Having removed himself from the Judge Magister's path just in time, the knight felt no less displaced by the commander's presence than if he'd been physically forced from the way. The guard shot a confused look to his Captain before hastily taking his hand from the hilt of his sword and pulling his frame to attention. To draw a weapon against a Judge Magister was treasonous insubordination and meant death.

The cutting flash of blued steel in the eyes and the stealthy, prowling stride as Gabranth passed chilled the soldiers' blood and expunged any hint of doubt cast by the Judge Magister's altered presentation. If there was anything a soldier in the employ of House Solidor must learn, it was to not question the tactics of those in command, no matter how bizarre the course. Noah saw suspicion settle to stoic acceptance as the soldiers set their minds to see only what they were told to see.

Did he feel any regret to deceive the men? Noah considered the question as he passed the faithful knights standing at attention along the way and concluded that he could not. One thing the Imperial Army had taught him: to play the part assigned. These served the Empire, and so saw to Larsa's safety, through their belief of this deceit-as he did by perpetrating it. …Would Basch see it this way? No, he deduced with a pang of regret, Basch would not.

"Lock down the hold while I see the prisoner."

"At your word, Your Honor." Noah strode calmly on as the Captain ordered his will done.

"You. With me." With a flick of the wrist he culled the knight who'd meant to waylay him from the ranks.

"Yes, sir." The guard at once fell in step.

As Noah brazenly advanced toward his goal, he considered,_ "What kind of a man impersonates himself?" _

For whatever reason, his thoughts turned to Zecht and to their brief, unkind, and all-too-final reunion at the Pharos of Ridorana. The Zecht he knew would have been eager to join in these theatrics. …To see Reddas, if such Foris Zecht had wished to be called, in the armor of Judge Magister, walking these halls… What would these good knights have said to that?

_"My friends, I implore you, continue to wager against the Lieutenant's success," Judge Zecht's deep and hearty laugh had echoed around the tavern populated with officers as he gathered up the coin bet against Gabranth's return from his latest clandestine mission behind enemy lines. "It makes him angry and the more inclined to live…and myself all the richer for it." An energetic slap to Noah's back had knocked the air from his lungs and jarred the drink in his fist._ Would he make that bet today?

The young guard turned his head. The puff of air expelled from Judge Magister Gabranth's nostrils sounded suspiciously like a sniff of amusement, but there was no sign of humor on the shadowed face. Instead, the Judge Magister's brow was lowered and his lips were pressed in a tight line.

Zecht had met his moment of decision after the fall of Nabudis; that much was clear. For himself? The catalyst had been triggered much earlier, but the moment had not appeared until there was no choice but that which would save Larsa… Tightly bound to the past, Zecht had said, and was right…

Noah knew he must be prepared to vanish into hidden channels at the first, stunned cry of _"Judge Magister?"_ should Basch's presence interrupt his intent. He knew he must be always ready to heed the angry call of _"Intruder!"_ if the disguise of his own skin slipped and the mask carved from his past life failed.

Noah recalled his brother's so recent words, "I am glad you are here." …Would Basch soon recant the gentle phrase? To preserve what had been knit again of the torn bond, Noah might have turned back if that choice had been still open to him. Now that he had set foot to this path, there was no choice left but to move forward and play the part well.

Somehow, even if he had decided in the court of his mind to repent of his actions, Noah knew his course would not have swayed. The fire of his will drove him forward, and his destination was determined come what may.

He measured the possible outcomes even as he continued toward his goal.

What if Zargabaath…? Zargabaath, loyal ever to his beloved Empire, would not betray. He would, however, see Noah executed by his own hand and tossed into a forgotten sea if it meant protecting the Empire's secrets and strength. Noah would not forget Drace's body shuddering as he drove the evil blade to its deadly mark or the sudden look of age upon Zargabaath's face as they left to reclaim Larsa, her body behind them upon the floor. Zargabaath might regret the need for such a choice, but regret would no more stay his hand now than it had Noah's that day.

How long could he count on Basch to remain upon the parapet staring into the long abandoned fields of yesteryear's Landis?  
Once his brother left off his study of the past, how long would it take him to wind through the skeleton of the Palace, even less familiar with the way as he was?  
How much time would it take him to arrive at Larsa's side, as Noah must believe would be his goal…  
If no eager Captain with information that must heard or Knight with news for the Judge Magister's ears only interrupted his course, how long until his attention turned to the prisoner hidden in silence below?  
...Not long enough for comfort, but then, Noah was not come to take ease.

The guards posted at strategic intervals did not so much as blink when the Judge Magister and Knight passed. With the young officer's belief as a shield to deflect suspicions and lend credence to his command, Noah navigated the increasingly somber passageway as one who owned the cells and the prisoners within, giving no indication of the calculations of his mind.

The further they descended along the path, the rougher the structure became, the atmosphere the more grim, the air rank with the scent of doom. Noah felt like a visitor to a tomb where those held within their caged coffins yet lived. The increasingly clammy air attached itself to his beard and moistened his lips, but when he touched them briefly with his tongue, the taste was not a pleasant one.

Noah didn't bother with words to command the guard at his side to open the heavy steel door of the first tier of the four separating the prisoner from any sound of outside life. The guard hurried to obey the subtle indication.

"Secure the way behind us."

The guard was seemed to draw back within his armor. Still, he complied at once.

Noah understood the reluctance.

These were the ancient layers of the Palace, carved from stone when Archadia's dreams were young and her vision was more ambitious than her reach. There were secrets here that he had not yet come to know. (And of what he had learned, he had not shared all with his twin.)

This had been the final home of a number of prisoners so scandalous their time in residency here was only rumor to the public. One, so stated by Ghis over his drink and in the company of his fellow Judge Magisters, had been the second wife of the late Emperor Gramis's grandfather. It was said at the time that she'd tried to poison the heir, son of her predecessor. Ghis had dramatically told of how she had protested, until her death from pining and heartache, that she had simply chosen her hobbies badly and was an ill-fated cook.

The banner of House Solidor hung heavy and still above the massive steel door barring passage to the second level of descent. The way opened, and into the dark hole of isolation and silence Noah continued on, the knight working to keep his pace.

It came to Noah that if he was found out, if Basch's wrath burned away what had sprouted of brotherly affection, and if Larsa's intrinsic mercies were held at bay, this might be his own final address… For a moment, instincts of self-preservation he'd once thought were lost awakened, but his mind straight away turned to his brother's lonely time in chains and darkness, and the tension eased. What would be would be.

The heavily armed gate to the third and final tier of protection surrounding the prisoner's cell clanked shut behind him, and Noah heard evidence of the guard's nervous shifting as wheels turned and bolts slid into place.

Here, an unbreakable, mirrored glass allowed them to look in on prisoners while remaining hidden from view. Inside the cell, the glass bore the illusion of stone, even to the touch. This useful illusion was just one of the marvels of Vayne Solidor's dear friend, the late Dr. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa.

The knight turned his eyes to the Judge Magister. Surely he had heard this contemptuous sniff, but no evidence of annoyance could be found on the Commander's face as he stared with piercing focus through the weird shield.

The prisoner sat on the stone floor, wrists and ankles manacled. His shoes had been removed. …Basch had taken this threat seriously.

As if he sensed he was being watched the prisoner looked up toward the wall, but his eyes, ringed black from what must surely be fatigue and stress, found nothing to hold. He settled back into his resigned space, nudged a stray potato (the midday meal) like a ball with his foot, and let his eyes sleepily close. His head nodded, matted hair falling forward to obscure his features.

Noah too closed his eyes._ Why did he know that face? From where did he know that face? _

Like flipping through a rolodex, Noah's mind sorted through faces and places, discarding those deemed irrelevant and retrieving those found useful.

_Rozarria… _Silently the word echoed in his mind, and faces with names known and unknown scattered upon the grid. Enemy spies, uprooted and upended in dark alleys, tunneled into the steel trap set for them, shrinking in terror or meeting with defiance their fates. Informers in smoke filled taverns and grungy, worn-down brothels, seamstress shops, and ancient chapels…  
The faces rose and fell away with the monikers they'd been born with or claimed.

_Cassiel. _He had told Basch to ask Zargabaath about Cassiel and his brother Aleron, judged traitors because of obscure ties with Rozarria. Noah's mind searched for the important connection always just out of reach, but again the thread slipped from his grasp.

_Margrace. _Unlike House Solidor with its one remaining heir, the stables of House Margrace were well stocked with those whose blood was just this much and so many times removed from power.

_Al-Cid._

_Al-Cid… _The rolodex stopped spitting up names and ground to a halt.

Though he was charming enough to find favor in the court of his Empress Aunt and had come to share confidence as ally to both Larsa in Archadia and the Lady in Dalmasca, Al-Cid had been a thorn in Gabranth's side for years. There had been secret skirmishes between their most elite in places not marked on the map for information never to see the light of day. Once, some five years past now, Gabranth had infiltrated a Rozarrian fortress and been met by Al-Cid himself.

An image surfaced of the man, his lovely but lethal flock at his side.

"_Ah, Gabranth. How are you, my friend? Shall I have my little bird pour you a drink? No? So sad to spoil a beautiful day with the shedding of blood, but…if we must." And so, with a sweeping bow as signal from Margrace, the fight had commenced and, with the aggravation of seeing his best men struggle against deceptively waif-like creatures in hand to hand combat, only ended when Al-Cid's soft heart had made him barter for the life of the young squire he'd foolishly allowed to enter the fray. "Come now, Gabranth, let us keep the violence between us." The Rozarrian nobleman called his birds back to the flock and held up his hands. "He's but a boy. An innocent. Here, my friend, surely I can offer something better for your appetite than the blood of a child." Al-Cid would not release anything of importance to his people's cause, and Noah knew the best either could get out of the ordeal was to return to separate corners and live to fight another day. When it was agreed that Al-Cid would look the other way while Gabranth chased down a particular bit of information on a matter at the Nabradian front, the young teen was released. What an irritation the man was, though it was true that Noah was glad for reason to let the youth live to grow wiser and older by at least another day. What was the boy's name? _

"Heh." Noah's eyes sharpened and lit upon the hard, dirt stained features of the prisoners. This time when he the guard looked to see if the sound he'd thought he heard was true, there was a hint of triumph in the turn of the Judge Magister's lips as he gave command. "Open the door."

* * *

The rain outside the tower fell in sheets so hard and fast that it veiled the view through the high stone arches and blew moisture into the chamber. It was no matter. From his seat deep in the interior, fire warming the hearth, the retired Rozarrian General, now statesman, felt no discomfort. Indeed it was a beautiful day in his estimation. He dipped his quill in the bottle of ink and wrote in finely detailed script upon a stretch of rich parchment.

The ivy covered tower had been built up from the side of a mountain, and only this one side was not open to the horizon. The vantage from the tower let him spot any approaching well before he might be seen. And the forbidding nature, not to mention the difficulty in acquiring passage to this place, afforded him privacy better than any guard or gate or iron.

The rain petered from a soaking roar to a weeping whine, and the rumble of an airship's approach was heard within the fading storm. Still, the statesman, once Commanding General of the proud Rozarrian Army, did not lift his head as Dimas Apolinar's airship neared. He continued with his writing even as his sullen, younger replacement crossed beneath the stone arch with its worn carvings, over the weathered balcony, past the tall stone columns that defined the outer station, and into the central chamber.

Only when the soft gust of air accompanying the shimmering tendril extinguished the candles lighting his space and ruffled the papers spread neatly before him did the nobleman show emotion of any kind. Displeasure then lined his forehead. "You return. And yet I did not call for you."

"This plan is doomed for failure." Dimas spared no time on civilities. "Why waste time and resources? The Dalmascan pretty and the Archadian infant were seated, both of them, in one chamber, and I must hold my tongue and my hands? Bah! We might have had them in one blow. Now?" Dimas scuttled the contents of the desk and planted both hands upon the rich wood, bending forward to look his object defiantly in the eye.

The elder man was of lesser stature and wider girth than the tall, lean man who invaded his chamber, and the eyes of the casual observer could mistakenly believe him made weak and soft by age. His hair was white where what had been spared of Dimas's shorn cap was dark as the ink on the quill. They both held their scars, heralds of their service to the Rozarrian Empire. It was the eyes that told the true story of power and strength.

Lord Argider's features did not change, but his eyes grew cold and hard. Dimas did not blink, but in his own eyes there came the tardy question of if he had gone too far. General Argider had been a mighty warrior, after all. Hadn't his father told the tales of violence and valor many times around the hearth?

"Son, do not route through my chambers like a wild boar."

"I am not your son." Dimas set his lips in challenge, ignoring the threat of danger.

The elder thoughtfully picked up a letter opener from among the clutter, moving its sharp edge against his hand lightly as he rounded the desk. Dimas turned to face him. "Have I not given you my daughter's hand?"

A rough growl escaped Dimas' throat, and the older man laughed lightly. "And how is our Gisela?"

Dimas scowled and blew a spurt of air from his nostrils to rival a horse. Argider chuckled. "Well, I leave her to you, and yet my point remains; we are family, you and I. There is a matter of trust that must remain between us. …How is my…_grandson_?" His eyes narrowed knowingly at the term.

Dimas turned from sulking to hostility, eyes hard, lips curled. "As instructed, the mongrel brat is whole."

"Mm. Yes. I trust you teach him to follow like a docile lamb?" The older man traced a thoughtful path across his desk.

The twist of Dimas's cruel lips spoke of his enjoyment. "Every chance I get."

"Careful, Dimas." His elder gave warning with a look that curbed the General's pleasure. "Remember that to the outside world, you are his father. Tender him to obedience and not to resistance. He must be _useful _when the time comes."

"Don't worry, my lord. He'll come meekly when called. Enough about the kid. When do we move?" Dimas's mood turned darker still and all the more restless at the reminder.

The warrior turned gentleman reached for his impatient son-in-law's hand, and the warrior yielded like a child even as the elder traced a long healed scar with the opener's sharp edge. The pressure was light and not enough to cut the scarred skin. "When I say, my lad. Not until then."

Dimas grasped the metal and clenched his fist, blood soon dripping from between his fingers onto the noble hand that cupped his. Argider scowled. "If it had been necessary, Dimas, I'd have seen it done. Must you always be so dramatic?"

"I am not afraid to spill my own blood." Dimas growled, still tightly holding to the blade and drinking up the sensation of pain.

"No." The older man dropped his hand and took a kerchief from his pocket, drying up the crimson that had leaked onto his own skin. "Nor that of any in your way. I know. I know." He viewed the stained stone tiles with annoyance and shoved the towel at his almost-son. "Clean that mess up, and if you take it upon yourself to do as much again, aim for your heart. I have no need of fools."

Dimas hesitated, pride inflamed.

"Clean it up!" The order invited no argument, and the General's trembling lip betrayed his rage and barely controlled temper. And yet, as Argider returned to his desk, the younger man bent down and wiped at the stained tiles beneath his feet.

"That's enough." The point had been made. "I'll have Rozenay see to it later. Come." Lord Argider motioned for Dimas to rise and approach him. The Rozarrian General came slowly to his feet, humiliation written in the eyes turned out and grimaced brow. A sullen, self-conscious boy stood where a raging, bloodthirsty warrior had been.

"Here." The elder man held out a filled glass, and though he seemed to begrudge the offering, Dimas accepted the gift, a bandage for his wounded pride.

"They killed Meret Denali." Still brooding, Dimas's voice was low and gruff.

"Ah well." The older man shrugged and laughed lightly, and Dimas looked up with a return grin.

"His coin will be missed…" Dimas, not at all sorry for the demise of Denali or worried in the least about his purse, watched for the elder's reaction.

"Certainly I found no cause to complain about the Gil, but if he is dead, I thank the one who took him. Some are more trouble than they are worth."

The look in the eyes of the General whose mantle he'd assumed caused Dimas to choke on the drink. The liquid he'd taken into his mouth went down in a gulp that stung, and by reflex, he coughed. Argider rose and came to him, laughing as he patted him on the back. "Just as when you were a boy and your father gave you your first taste. Do you recall?"

Dimas flushed, swallowed again, and bit the inside of his lip until he tasted more of what he'd spilled upon the stone. Maybe Argider had been General once with Dimas's father serving at his side. Well, once and no more. His father was dead, and Dimas wouldn't put up with this venomous relic of the past mocking him forever.

The old man patted Dimas again on the arm, his eyes straying to the blood still streaked upon the floor. That his command was turned into such impatient, reckless hands as this… Serving pain should be a subtle thing. Son of his favored Lieutenant or no, he'd not put up with this brash, fool of a boy forever.

* * *

"Have a seat, Gabranth." Zargabaath was calm as ever, but there was something strange about the way he studied Basch that made him uncomfortable.

"Is there something I can do for you, Your Honor?" Basch resisted in spirit but willed his body to take the offered seat and then the glass handed to him.

Zargabaath's private office was clearly more than a place to manage time and meet with subordinates. Structured as the man occupying it, there was also a warmth and personalization to the space that Gabranth's office lacked. Zargabaath had invested himself here. It was a mark of a man at peace with where he belonged. Basch's eyes were drawn to the painting hanging behind the officer's desk.

"Days, weeks, months… How they rush like flood waters into the sea of time…" Zargabaath drained his goblet and looked long into the crystal vacuum as Basch pulled his focus back to his colleague. "I wonder, Gabranth," he smiled momentarily, eyes flitting to his fellow Judge Magister's face, "with all that has lately come to pass, if it has escaped your consideration that the anniversary of our young Emperor's birth is soon upon us."

Did the truth show itself on Basch's face? He quickly recovered.

"Of course." Yes, of course he knew... Even before coming to this place, Basch had knowledge of the official Solidor timeline. As Judge Magister dedicated to the young Emperor's safety and care, Larsa's approaching birth date was not hidden from him. And yet…had the time arrived so soon? It was as Zargabaath had said. They were caught in a rushing flow…

Immediately, Basch began to consider: what would a boy of thirteen like to see for his birthday? …What had _he_ hoped for at that age? It was difficult to recall now… It had been less about the gift than who he'd spent the day with.

Sadness filled his heart for the boy who must face the day without his family. Already without mother and living with the ghosts of his family, Larsa must now enter his thirteenth year remembering the loss of father and brother and all the circumstances surrounding their deaths… Something special should be done for him, and not just in the way of streamers and trumpets and crowds…

Zargabaath cleared his throat. "There will be the usual pomp and ceremony, as befitting an Emperor. The people will expect it. Invitations should even now be out to the dignitaries and allied heads of state… It would have been advantageous to have Judge Magister Drace's capable eye for the duty of formal pageantry, leaving you to attend to matters of security as is your specialty…" He was watching Gabranth closely, and Basch began to wonder if the veteran officer doubted Gabranth's ability to manage the celebration without the aid of this ill-fated Drace his brother and Zargabaath seemed to put so much stock in.

Perhaps Zargabaath saw the frustration in his eyes, because the commander stilled his tongue and turned instead to refilling his drink, stretching his long, lean legs out to rest upon a formidable stack of Law journals.

"As we are discussing House Solidor…" As Basch began, he felt his stomach knot nervously, though he couldn't say why. Zargabaath stiffened at Gabranth's tone and pulled his legs back under his desk. "Let us discuss Cassiel Solidor."

The liquid in Zargabaath's goblet shivered like waves rippling on an amber sea. "What could you possibly…?"

Was it Basch's imagination or did Zargabaath's pallor suddenly match the palest shade of gray in his hair?

"It comes to me that the intrigue of the past may not be forgotten by those involved and may have something to do with the current plot. If this is so…"

Already Zargabaath's tone had evened out and with it the balance of the goblet in his hand. "It _comes_ to you…" The words repeated softly and with a strange tilt to the officer's lips.

Never had Basch witnessed animosity in the normally unruffled Judge Magister's manner or expression, and yet he was sure he had glimpsed it just now. And then the resentment dissolved as if it had never been.

Zargabaath tented his fingers. "Cassiel Solidor is dead." His delivery was careful and measured. "With his brother Aleron at his side, he met his end…" A shadow crossed Zargabaath's face and was gone. He sat back and lifted his eyes to meet Gabranth's, "…on the field of battle."

"That is what is said…" Basch shifted, determinedly matching Zargabaath's intent gaze. "But from you, Zargabaath, I hope to hear the truth."

"Truth?" Zargabaath chuckled lightly, the lines at the corners of his gray eyes deepening. "Ah, truth… Yes." He leaned forward to fill Gabranth's glass, holding out the crystal goblet.

Basch accepted with a courteous nod and a wary spirit.

Zargabaath touched his own goblet to Gabranth's and the clear ringing of the crystal collision filled the room. The gray eyes normally so reserved and cautiously able to conceal emotion were a blend of challenge, umbrage, and mirth. "Then let us have at the truth, shall we…_Basch fon Ronsenburg_…"

* * *

Wulf skimmed the contents of the artist's room as if debating his course. He could hear the rhythmic pounding of the hammer from the forge behind the mercantile even here in the upper floors of the home. It was amazing that the guards hadn't come to order Ranel to silence. He wanted to observe the artist before the work was halted, but then he also wanted to know a little more about the enemies acting as friends.

As long as Ranel was occupied and the guards were obligingly absent…

Even so, having his mind set to the task, Wulf growled as began rummaging through Kasan Ranel's things. The remains of the boy he'd been before the war desperately wanted to run down the stairs and out back to see whatever creation the artist was hard at work on… If he could work it out so his pride wouldn't complain, he'd also like to determine if anything might be salvaged from the remnants of the broken blade…and just how much a sword like he'd had would cost to be replaced.

In the back of the closet, behind boxes of supplies, a basket of polishing cloths, a handful of swords and mismatched pieces of armor, a rack of worn work clothes, and behind a few suits of fine clothing that had seen little use, Wulf found the Judge's armor Kasan had worn when serving under Judge Magister Drace in the Palace. The evidence of Kasan's status and service brought a hard sneer to Wulf's lips. Not just an everyday soldier then. A kept pet of the Empire. Gabranth's pet, maybe.

One by one, he pulled open the drawers of Kasan's writing desk. Scribbled ramblings and poetic lines were scrawled across unevenly torn slips of paper. Scratches and side-notes marred the sheets. In another drawer he found drawings and pages cluttered with scattered sketches. Weapon designs were interspersed with detailed portraits and snippets of landscapes. Pieces and parts of random oddities made Wulf stare. A pair of goggles, a ball of twine, a vintage grinder of some kind, clock parts: these and many more Wulf fingered and tossed back with a shake of his head. Artists: who could understand them?

Wulf wryly considered the space. The Ranel household must have been much different than his own. His own father would never have allowed such disorder and chaos. But then…it was true that his mother had been a pack rat and a dabbler. Unchecked by her husband's dedication to discipline, she'd have had them living in a dreamer state. He smiled sadly. Hadn't every book had a flower pressed at some sentimental page? Had she not pocketed many a useless, broken trinket on the words, "Just in case…"

From beneath the bed, he pulled out a box and sat upon the floor to sort it out. Among the few sentimental trinkets he found the remains of a faded kite, a dog-eared sketchbook, and a mosaic picture of flowers in a field. It looked something like the fields in Nabradia once had. That flower…

Wulf absentmindedly picked up the framed piece and ran his finger over the pieces of pottery. One section stood out, and he frowned uncertainly. What?

To his feet so fast it made his head swim, Wulf took the hallway like a runaway and the stairs in two large bounds. From the living quarters into the shop and bursting into the work shop, Wulf's entrance was enough to rouse Kasan from the hypnosis of the flame. "What is it?"

Wulf held up the plaque and then deposited it on a workbench to pick up a poker. "Ranel, I hope you've said your prayers, because I'm gonna kill you."

Wulf's attack was vicious, but Kasan, flabbergasted at the turn of events as he was, managed to swing the hammer and deflect the iron post. The clash rang loudly, but then so had hammer upon anvil. No one came to break it up.

"What's the matter with you?" Kasan, aided by strength earned at the forge, used the handle of the hammer to block another blow and then shoved Wulf back against the brick wall.

"Where did you get the picture?" Wulf choked out the question bitterly.

"The picture?" Kasan's bewilderment cost him as Wulf head butted him violently, staggering them both. Wulf, readied by his awareness of the coming pain, recovered first and delivered a hard blow of the iron rod to Kasan's shoulder, and Kasan dropped the hammer.

"Wulf!" Kasan groaned. "I can't answer your questions if I'm dead." A moment of hesitation was all Kasan needed as he slammed his blacksmith's fist into Wulf's jaw, following up with a second blow that dropped the raging Nabradian to the stone floor. Kasan stood staring down at him with curiosity and exasperation. "Mad. You've gone mad." He laced Wulf's hands and tossed him over his shoulder, carrying the unconscious Nabradian back into the house where he was deposited abruptly onto the nearest sofa.

Already Wulf's lip and eye were swelling, and Kasan grimaced. What wonderful diplomacy this was turning out to be. "You did try to take my head off…" Still, Kasan went for a cold compress. When he returned, Wulf was groggily trying to sit up and beginning to struggle with his bonds.

"Sit still."

"Untie me!"

"Sure…once you agree to stop swinging."

Wulf glared from his open eye, and pulled at the laces.

"The more you pull, the tighter they'll get." Kasan approached with a dagger, and Wulf grew visibly alert. When the knife sliced the laces and freed his hands, Wulf sniffed cynically, but Kasan tossed him a raw steak and handed over a kitchen towel packed with ice and tied with the same type of lace that had held Wulf's hands.

Kasan propped himself on the arm of a chair opposite the couch and watched Dalmasca's diplomat turned attempted assassin with weary, exasperated eyes. "You want to explain all that?" He motioned toward the work shop with the dagger, and Wulf grimaced.

"Where did you get the picture?" Wulf repeated the question that he'd posed to start the melee.

"Yeah, I heard that question, and if you had waited for answer, you would have known it was a gift." Before Wulf could ask, Kasan held up his hand and added, "From my father."

"Probably stolen." Wulf scoffed.

"Stolen!" Thoughts of forgiveness diminished. "You really are out of your mind." Then Kasan turned the accusation. "Did you steal that sword you were wielding at the Castle?"

"No! I-" Wulf's face paled, and he turned the discussion once again back to the mosaic. "I'll buy it from you. The picture… I'll buy it." Suddenly Wulf was accommodating.

"What?" Kasan guffawed, and what wasn't already turning color on Wulf's face was cast in red.

"I'll buy it. I can pay."

"I'm sorry." Kasan waved the idea away, and then he rethought his approach and decided to explain. "Look, my father wasn't inclined to give me many gifts. Those he did, I figure to keep."

"He gave you all this." Wulf waved his hand around the house, discounting the broken windows, and splintered, scarred, stained wood and tile.

"My step-mother disagrees."

"Don't play with me." Wulf frowned defensively.

"Why do you want it?" This was the question that puzzled Kasan most.

Wulf flinched. "It…reminds me of…someone I lost."

"Me too." Kasan reminded him, but he didn't press. Wulf was right. At least he had his country and homeland and, bruised as it was, his home… Wulf looked up at him with desperation, and Kasan glanced away. "Look, I'll go put out the fire, and we'll go back to the Palace."

"Like this?" Wulf motioned to his face incredulously. What would Ashe say to find that he'd attacked Basch and Kasan Ranel on this diplomatic mission-and both in one night?

Kasan laughed. "Eh, we'll just tell them we had an altercation while checking the house. …If we happen not to mention it was with each other." He shrugged.

Wulf stared aside but in the silence, Kasan found agreement.

Kasan went to see to the forge, leaving Wulf holding the meat and dripping rag of ice to his face. At the workbench, Kasan picked up the plaque and studied the image. Pieces of pottery made up the sky and grass. A patterned piece created the illusion of a field of golden flowers. He'd never really looked that closely at it before. One piece in the corner held an emblem… Kasan squinted to see, and then realized he was looking at a part of the emblem of the Nabradian Knights. Ah, so that was it… He sighed. Well, maybe Wulf was right. Maybe it did belong with him.

"Here." The look on Wulf's face when he pushed the package toward him pained Kasan, and he was shocked when after all this, the gift was refused.

"No, you're right. It doesn't belong to me. I just lost my head. It happens." Wulf refused to meet his gaze with his one good eye but grinned halfheartedly. "To me, often." His smile failed and Wulf sobered.

"Don't worry about it. How do you feel?" As he asked, Kasan rubbed his own shoulder where Wulf had smacked him with the rod.

"Heh. Don't flatter yourself, Archadian, I'm fine." Wulf swiveled his neck, and Kasan heard the pop.

They moved toward the door, skimming the area one last time, and then exited to the airship.

The guards inside shook their heads and blinked away the sleepiness that had settled as they waited. As Kasan pulled the door of the passenger ship closed and the engine hummed to life, one of the guards spoke up, "Master Ranel, don't your neighbors ever complain about all the noise?"

Amid Wulf's manic laughter, the airship lifted and retraced its path through the darkened Archadian sky.

* * *

"Hello, Ransom."

The young man physically reacted to the name. For just a moment he looked up and directly into Noah's eyes. The shock of discovery was evident, as was the sudden taste of fear. But then the dark eyes dulled and his head dipped.

"Ransom Mondregon. Yes? Yes. It took me some time to place you." With one stroke he erased the questions blossoming in the prisoner's mind and made two Gabranths one. "You have grown since first we met, Ransom."

Noah smiled amiably, leaning his long frame easily against the stone wall of the enclosure. He could see Ransom's jaw muscles work tensely, but the young man remained silent.

"I had to wonder, does our friend, Al-Cid Margrace, know that you are here? Do you come at his behest? Such duplicity that would be, that he should speak words of diplomacy to not only Archadia but with Dalmasca and Bhujerba and then use you to strike with the sword against that very peace. Brazen. Bold. …Foolish." Noah looked unemotionally down upon the prisoner. "Such can only result in his death, whether by Archadian hands or by his own House-if by this endeavor he weakens their claim."

The dark eyes, like pieces of coal, stared up at him, and Noah could see the cracks of panic in the obsidian glass.

"Your tricks will fail. No one will believe it." The young man spoke at last, holding to defiance that Noah knew had been shaken.

Noah's gave an incredulous smile and pushed away from the wall to pace in front of the prisoner. "No one will believe that House Margrace would plan the assassination of the last remaining member of the line of their most bitter enemy, House Solidor? No one would believe that Rozarria, always struggling against Archadia for power and place, would strike at Archadia's defenses while she makes transitions in power and recovers from the wounds of war? No one will believe?" He chuckled harshly. "Oh, Ransom…they will believe."

Ransom flinched slightly but held his tongue.

Noah stopped circling the prisoner and viewed him with a sharp flavor of cynical disdain. "Unfortunate for Al-Cid, who was most a fool for trusting you, but then as a sacrifice he will do; someone must pay for the sins of your family. Or am I mistaken," Noah's tone made it clear he knew the truth, "and your mother was not of the line?"

Ransom gasped and shuddered violently, and Noah knew he'd won. He took a step toward the door as if to leave, and Ransom called after him. "Please, my mother is gone, and Al-Cid…House Margrace…they've nothing to do with this. You must believe me!"

Noah stopped only a few steps from the door and turned with an expressionless stare. "Who sent you, Ransom? Dimas Apolinar?"

"Yes, Dimas!" Eagerly Ransom grasped a hold of the offered name.

"Ransom…" Noah chided the young man softly. "Dimas is the fool. You ask me to believe that you, of House Margrace, play the assassin for his sake?" Noah turned again. "You'll excuse me. I must pay a visit to Al-Cid. He has a debt to pay."

"No!" Ransom's brow tugged in a nervous twinge, but he managed to reign in his fear. When he spoke again there was a measure of control again. "I acted alone."

"Alone?" Noah's eyelids narrowed in disdain. "Alone with the soldier, Aramis?"

"Denali." Ransom hastened to offer a token of trust. "The soldier was Denali's son."

Noah watched him in careful study for a moment, and Ransom looked to the silence as reason for hope.

"Denali: another fool. …And who sent the two of you?" Noah repeated the inquiry intently.

"General Dimas Apolinar." Hope faded from Ransom's eyes as he numbly repeated his first answer.

Noah's lips crooked in a cold smile. "Ah well. No matter. I have what I need in you. The truth will find its way." He walked toward Ransom, never blinking, never breaking the locked gaze. "Savor the pain of your last night in this dark, cold dungeon, my friend. Tomorrow's gilded cage will give you comfort befitting a Rozarrian defector in the Archadian court. Your praises will be sung from secret corners and in crowded streets until all of Ivalice knows what you have done…how you have betrayed your country and thrown Al-Cid…your cousin, if I trace the sprawling tree correctly, to the hell hounds…all to save yourself."

"No." Ransom mouthed the word he had no strength to voice, but Noah wasn't done.

"No harm will come to you. You have my word." He knew the young warrior had no concern for his own life. He could see the signs of a soul bent on self-destruction. Noah's eyes were as hard as the stone. "If you must be chained naked to the iron banister like a dog to prevent you from harming yourself, it will be done. If you must be fed through a needle to prevent starvation, it will be done. You will live to know the account of the deaths of those you love and betray with your silence. You will live, and as they die, you will beg to join them in a peace undeserved."

"You don't understand!" Ransom strained against his bonds, breathing heavily. "Al-Cid can protect himself…even from you." He licked his lips, torn asunder by fear not of what Archadia's Judge Magister Gabranth might do to him but of what the one whose orders he followed might do to those he loved. "Al-Cid is not the only one."

The cruel mask disappeared from Noah's face, and the darkness faded from his eyes as he addressed the young Rozarrian warrior with quiet intensity. "Then you must tell me the truth."

Ransom shook his head and pulled back into his confined space. "If I tell you-" His voice was a whisper, and Noah interrupted before he could solidify his resistance.

"It will be the same. …Only if you do not, I will not be able to protect them."

Though Noah had not laid a hand on him, and the interrogation had left no mark, Ransom groaned as if Gabranth had cranked the handle on the rack.

"The truth, Ransom, or watch your loved ones suffer for your sake."

"Why should I trust in your word?" Ransom's hands were shaking so that the length of chain between them rattled under the vibration.

"Your life was in my hands once, Ransom, years ago. When Al-Cid bartered for your return, I let you live. I kept my word. I'll keep it again."

Ransom gave a bitter laugh, but when he lifted his eyes, there was purpose within. "He had killed my elder sister when I was but a boy. Used me to spy, and then called her a traitor, because she loved…" Something changed in his expression, and he kept the memory hidden. "…He ordered the execution of the father of a friend, a faithful warrior who looked after me when my own father fell, to cover his own schemes. I didn't understand it all then." His eyes grew hard, his face cold and unwavering once again. "I understand now." And the truth came. "General Argider." The weight of the burden he'd carried suddenly overcame him, and his shoulders bowed, head dipping until his matted waves concealed his face. Still, Noah heard the grieved words that escaped. "He has shown no kindness to me. I have no kindness to repay him."


	43. The Use of a Broken Tune

The shock Basch felt at Zargabaath's revelation was betrayed by the lifting of his scarred brow to make way for widened eyes beneath. Seasoned instincts countered the jolt rippling through his veins by sinking his emotions beneath a layer of deceptive calm. In case Zargabaath only hazarded a guess wagered on suspicion, Basch kept his silence. Carelessness might only prove the suspected truth.

As the months had passed, Basch had come to a certain level of ease with the officer. He had come to rely upon Zargabaath's even judgments and finely honed skills. Though initially reluctant, he had, through increased familiarity with Zargabaath's steadfast nature, been put to rest even with leaving Larsa alone in his presence. He had trusted Zargabaath's council on matters of Archadian law and procedure he did not himself yet understand. Zargabaath's unruffled, efficient way of managing the transitions that had followed the war had made it easier for Basch to do as he must in protecting Larsa. The first fine threads of trust had woven into a bond of alliance, but that veil of fledgling comradeship was now rent. As in times past, now again, Basch saw the enemy standing before him, threatening what he must protect.

As if Zargabaath had been endowed with the ability to read minds, he addressed Basch's fears. "I serve my Emperor. If he wills that one be released from duty and another take his place, it is mine to accept and his to say." Zargabaath's eyes darkened under the shadow of a furrowed brow, but there was no defiance in his tone or manner to suggest his words untrue or his intent false. Behind his guarded eyes, Zargabaath questioned yet again how it was that his eye had bypassed the clues and discounted the changes that might have told him the truth before the child Emperor had found it necessary.

When Larsa had called for him upon return from Dalmasca, he had been prepared for many possibilities but not the truth to come.

"_Emperor Larsa." Zargabaath brought a clenched fist to his chest and bowed to the young ruler._

_The boy Emperor had turned from what appeared to be pacing and nearly ran to meet his Knight. "Thank you for coming, Judge Magister Zargabaath."_

_Almost but not quite Zargabaath had allowed amusement to show on his lips. It was not as if he had choice in the matter. Larsa Ferrinas Solidor might have been twelve years old, but he was Emperor. When the Emperor called, his Knights came. _

_Was it his imagination, Zargabaath wondered, or did the boy appear anxious and troubled? _

"_Would you care for some wine, Your Honor?"_

_It seemed an absurd question from Larsa's lips, made more ridiculous still when Larsa moved to serve him. Zargabaath was less able to conceal bewilderment than humor, and Larsa's smooth cheeks flushed. When Zargabaath saw the color rise in the boyish cheeks and noticed a slight trembling in the hand that held the bottle, he at once accepted the offering. "I thank you, Emperor Larsa."_

"_Please, Your Honor, won't you sit down?" Larsa directed him to a luxurious couch and watched eagerly as he took the offered place. He watched as the officer sipped his wine and nodded his gratitude. All the while, Zargabaath wondered and felt the strangeness of it all. _

"_It was a good year, yes?" Eagerly Larsa waited for his reply._

"_An excellent choice, my Lord." Under Larsa's intent gaze, Zargabaath drained the crystal and watched with some distress as the young Emperor took it again from his hand. _

"_Would you care for more?"_

"_No. Thank you." Drinking with Larsa in the early hours of the day. What would Drace say?_

_The boy nodded, but too quickly, and Zargabaath scratched his jaw thoughtfully. "Emperor Larsa, if there is anything I might do for you, you have only ever to ask." _

"_Zargabaath!" Larsa came to the cushion next to him with such rapidity that by surprise was the Judge Magister nearly unseated._

"_Yes, my lord?" _

_Larsa grasped his hand, and Zargabaath stared with dismay at the childish, soft hand holding his own. _

"_Zargabaath, there is so much I must tell you. I hope you will understand. I am certain you will understand." Tender belief emanated from Larsa's eyes, but worry creased his normally unlined brow as faith and doubt warred in the boy's heart._

_Larsa tucked his feet nervously together and craned his neck to meet Zargabaath's gaze. It came to the man who had been Judge Magister even before the boy's birth how young, how small, and how vulnerable was Archadia's Emperor. The need for an increase to the strength of those guarding him was felt keenly. He would speak to Gabranth on the issue. _

_Zargabaath watched with growing concern as Larsa worked to form the words. He was unprepared when Larsa suddenly blurted out, "Zargabaath, there are two Gabranths!" _

"_Ha!" The panicked exclamation escaped from Zargabaath's lips before his teeth could clamp down with such ferocity that he tasted blood. His body jerked with the will to rise and settled under order to remain. Two Gabranth! His methodical mind went to work. So Larsa had learned about Noah Gabranth's twin, Dalmasca's fallen Captain, Basch fon Ronsenburg. Well, he told himself, blood calming in his veins, that was not such a terrible thing. It was good that Larsa came to understand the makings of the men closest to him. "Yes, my lord," he nodded. "It is true that the Gabranth we know was born Noah fon Ronsenburg of Landis, but his mother-"_

"_No, Zargabaath!" The boy was fairly jumping at his side as if about to explode under pressure of a volatile mix of nervous energy and excitement._

_What was it? _

"_There are two Gabranths __here,__ and the Gabranth who has been with us since the great battle is Basch! …Zargabaath?"_

_Zargabaath would have made an excellent artist's model, for he could not move. He simply sat and stared at the boy. Finally he sputtered out, "What? What?" The idiocy of his stuttering annoyed him, but he could do nothing to correct his fumbling tongue._

"_Basch escaped from Nalbina Dungeon, Zargabaath!"_

_Nalbina Dungeon? Zargabaath's eyes left Larsa's face as he skimmed his memory for pieces to the puzzle. And suddenly the fog cleared over at least this one image. Ah, Gabranth. Vayne Solidor had mocked the past cruelly. Had Gramis known? Surely so, for the joke would have been thin without an audience._

"_When Basch and his friends-along with the Lady Ashe and Balthier, Zargabaath!-were fighting…" Excitement and admiration faded and fell into the remembrance of just whom Basch and his friends had been in battle against. Compassion flooded Zargabaath's spirit, but as he sat awkwardly wondering over an acceptable response to the child Emperor's grief, Larsa continued more sadly on. "My lord brother struck at Gabranth, and…he fell." Though Larsa had already allowed the presence of the two Gabranths in the Palace, still the reminder of his protector's pain brought grief. "My brother was not well, Zargabaath. Otherwise, he would not…" Loyal defense faded as the boy struggled against the truth known to his heart. _

"_Aye, my Lord." Without thinking, Zargabaath pressed the hand still holding his, and Larsa took courage. _

"_Our Gabranth asked Basch to take his place to protect me before he died." Sorrow remained for an instant and then vanished in a flash of white teeth. "But he did not die! The boy Faolyn saved him!" _

_Larsa let go of Zargabaath's hand and bounded to his feet, his own hands clasped tightly in front of his chest as if in attempt to restrain his exhilaration. There was no mistaking the animated dancing of his the stars in his eyes. "And now they are all here: Basch, Noah, Faolyn, and my lord Uncle, Sir Jolon!"_

_Jolon Alasdair, the late Empress Consort's brother, as well? The headache that screamed behind Zargabaath's eyes was accompanied by a knot of tension between them, and Larsa's happiness paled. _

"_Do not be angered at Basch for this deception, Zargabaath. …At the time, thinking our old Gabranth gone…" _

_Old Gabranth. Zargabaath felt amusement return. How Drace would have used that title. _

"_He is my dear friend. I do not know what I would have done if…" Were there tears shining in the blue eyes staring at the Judge Magister? The soft glimmer was a hammer of alarm against the wall of his resolve, but before he must think of how he should respond, Larsa interjected, "And without Noah also. And you, certainly, Zargabaath. And Judge Magister Drace." He swallowed looked on resolutely._

_Zargabaath felt sympathy for the lad who could not even express affection for one without feelings of obligation and guilt toward the rest. "I am sure that the two Gabranth's would join me in saying we are proud to serve you, my Emperor. I know that Judge Magister Drace was." A soft smile graced Zargabaath's normally somber lips, and Larsa's eyes lightened happily. _

"_I have great faith that my friends will not find it difficult to work together for the good of our people." Larsa's blue eyes had locked earnestly on the Elite Knight's with gratitude for his loyalty. "I knew that I could count on you, Judge Magister Zargabaath."_

_Zargabaath had not demanded further reasoning for his exclusion from sharing the truth of Basch fon Ronsenburg's presence. He had not asked for relief for his wounded pride as he took up his place to protect the secret that had to now been forbidden him. _

_Gramis had relied upon his loyalty, and never had he failed to keep the faith. It was true, others might have had reason to despair and found just cause to condemn such devotion to his Lord Emperor's command, but his Emperor had never had reason to doubt him, whatever the price he was asked to pay. _

_Vayne Solidor's taunting eyes as they stood before the slain body of his father came to mind. How Vayne had played them: Gabranth, Drace, and himself. How he had hated them each separately. That hatred had linked their fates: Drace the loyal condemned, Noah the sorrowed executioner, and he, Zargabaath, always the faithful witness. Did Gabranth know? _

_He knew or sensed enough to suggest the name of Cassiel Solidor…_

Zargabaath smoothed the crease in the folded piece of parchment upon his desk and addressed the man once called an enemy of Archadia and now before him as ally. "In all likelihood, Cassiel Phaedrus Solidor would have been Emperor today, if not for-" A brisk rap upon the heavy frame interrupted Zargabaath's speech and lifted his eyes from the paper. "Come."

"Pardon, Judge Magisters."

Zargabaath viewed the knight without change of expression. Inwardly he sighed. _Was the plea a legal request? Get on with it, man._

Basch glanced at the soldier and back to his colleague. He found tells of tension in both men and felt the same in himself.

"Word of Lieutenant Pryderi from Master Gervys, Sir."

Zargabaath held a hand out to receive the folder emblazoned with the official emblem of House Solidor and opened it to read the notations made by the head physician.

Basch watched as Zargabaath perused the contents and observed the tightening of his jaw.

"Mm." A wave of the hand, and the guard retreated from the room, leaving the Judge Magisters to their deliberations.

"Is the Lieutenant beyond hope?" Basch felt the tide of regret wash upon the shores of his conscience and then abate. Many were the men who had ridden out with him to battle never to return. He could not bring them back. He could only honor the cause of their sacrifice as he would ask of them if their places had been reversed. So it would be for Pryderi.

"He will live." Zargabaath continued to view the notice in his hands, and Basch leaned forward.

"What then?"

"It seems the power used in the attack is malicious in nature. The effect fades but not soon enough. Pryderi may never hold a sword again. Shame." Zargabaath dropped the folder onto his desk and turned away. "He was a good soldier."

Basch stood and approached the desk, helping himself to the file. Zargabaath made no objection. Instead he watched as Basch read the same words he had read and offered up a thought for consideration. "Madame Ranel has regained near full strength now that she was removed from the sinister influence but would not likely have survived long otherwise. Pryderi's recovery was delayed, the seriousness of his injuries exacerbated, by the same ill begotten force." He paused and frowned, uncharacteristically bothered.

"Say what you would say, Zargabaath." Along with secrecy and a measure of trust, patience and compliance had fled, and Basch prodded the Archadian officer without care to mind his place in the scheme.

"Even now _our Emperor_," Zargabaath's eyes hardened slightly as he spoke the words, and here came steeled challenge to his gaze, "is in the company of a lad either debilitated by this power or wielding the same."

Basch ran a hand over his mouth and chin. He had the same fear as implied in Zargabaath's unfinished thought-that with Faolyn, Larsa was not safe. The memory came in full detail of Faolyn in the Dalmascan court, shards of Wulf's great sword shattered upon the stone and the boy held in check only by the determination of Noah's devotion. No harm had come; as Noah had argued, it was true. Yet, what might have been cast a chill over Basch's heart. Ashelia and Larsa might have together found their end, and chaos and calamity would have found their people.

"Faolyn is Noah's…" Basch hesitated.

"Son?" Zargabaath's lips turned skeptically.

"Name him what you will. Noah owes the boy a debt and wishes to protect him. He…he swears the child is no threat." Basch could not but stumble over the strained defense he himself questioned at the core.

"He would." At Basch's questioning look, Zargabaath rephrased. "The Gabranth that _I_ knew," a flicker of irony crossed his face, "for one he was indebted to protect, would so say."

"But not at the risk of Larsa." Basch's tone was absolute.

Zargabaath made no attempt to refute what experience had shown to be true, but as he tapped his fingers upon the polished desk top, he mused quietly. "Perhaps debt has blinded him at last. Always was he loyal beyond reason."

_Loyal beyond reason._ The pain of the betrayal he had endured at his brother's hands flared, but Basch scoffed and shifted his weight to one side. "A strange accusation coming from you."

"So you defend him," Zargabaath pondered aloud, examining the Judge Magister closely. "Your own loyalties are markedly divided, _Basch_. Do you know your own mind on the question?"

Basch glared across the room for a moment, and then gave up the fight to rub the throbbing bridge between his eyes. Did he? Things had been so much simpler when he was Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg and the name Gabranth was just the memory of a mother lost and the disappointment of a brother bound to the enemy.

"Larsa himself may resist removing the child from his company, but some wiser course must be taken with regard to the boy. Emperor Larsa's life cannot be left to chance and hope, even at the word of Gabranth."

"What wiser course do you suggest, Zargabaath?"

As the door secured behind him, Noah pushed back the hood of his cloak to stand unconcealed.

It was one thing for Zargabaath to reveal his understanding of Basch's presence and another to have Noah standing as proof of the deception beside him in the Judge Magister's chamber. Basch's first instinct was to rise prepared to defend the broken dam of silence and to quell the overflowing secrets, like streams of deadly whispers, filling the room and rushing toward the door. His hand was at the hilt of the Highway Star.

"There's no need for that." Zargabaath addressed Basch mildly. To Noah he murmured dryly, "Do join us, won't you, Gabranth."

"Your Honor."

As the former colleagues greeted one another calmly and with subtle gestures of respect, Basch's hand loosed from the grip, and he watched the exchange with both skepticism and wonder. What had he expected to see in Noah's manner; the same tempestuous, brash challenge that had been shown to him? Yes. But it was not so.

"When did you come to know?" Noah's manner was as reserved and his tone as even as the man he addressed.

Zargabaath spoke frankly. "When my Emperor wished it."

Under Zargabaath's steady, somber gaze, Noah seemed to find what assurance he needed; Basch looked away. Though he could not argue against Zargabaath's right to be counted amongst them, he could not help but wish that Larsa had prepared him for Zargabaath's addition to their circle. And then he resigned himself with the devotion of service and the patience of affection. Larsa was the Archadian Emperor; he would do what he willed. And Larsa was a boy; he would do what he felt.

Noah had another youth in mind.

"Concerning the boy, what is your intent, Zargabaath?" And there was the appearance of the Noah that Basch had come to expect. Noah's eyelids lowered across his irises, and what of the smoky blue was revealed seemed to flash like sparks of heated steel flying from a grinding wheel.

"I have no intent but to see to the interests of my Emperor and the Empire."

Noah frowned darkly, dissatisfied. "The boy is no threat."

Zargabaath answered the declaration coolly. "You would wager Larsa's life on this belief?"

Noah's anger hid itself away, slipping beneath a bond of duty he could not escape and would not shirk, but with acceptance, guilt revealed its face when he asked, "What would you have me do?"

"I am, for my part," Zargabaath straightened the paperwork on his desk, "open to suggestion."

Awkward stillness fell upon the chamber until Basch spoke. "He has been kept safe 'til now with you, Noah."

Zargabaath came forward to lean against the side of the desk and view the exchange. He analyzed Noah's reaction carefully, mind full of questions he thought better than to ask just now. As luck would have it, Noah himself opened the way.

"If he might stay here under the care of Sir Jolon, until I return…" Noah opposed the notion of uprooting the boy or relegating him to isolation, even for Larsa's sake. "I will do what I must to see to his keep."

"An acceptable remedy, so long as those who remain are steadfast in their observations of the boy's state and prepared to take steps to ensure the Emperor's safety." Zargabaath nodded briskly, made satisfied with the solution even as Noah recoiled at the understanding of what types of steps might be named necessary.

Basch ignored the negotiations and implications to cut to the quick of what remained. "When you return?" He had read enough in his brother's eyes to raise alarm, but now he was at full alert. Because his fingers needed something to do, he scratched at the scar over his brow and followed the line to the notch the blade had left in his ear. Not only was it Noah who gave him reason for concern. The look on Zargabaath's face put him on edge. What was this current passing between his brother and the Judge Magister?

"To Rozarria." Noah avoided his brother's eyes as he made the proclamation. Nonetheless, he felt his brother's reaction strongly and saw the movement of Basch's armored form from his peripheral view. Even Zargabaath pushed away from where he had heretofore dispassionately leaned.

"What?" The initial sharpness of Basch's tone made Noah flinch no more than the injured bewilderment in the following, "Why?"

Basch's confusion was drowned out by Zargabaath's interjection. "Gabranth," this time he addressed Basch, "I ask you to consider that every tool has its use and not all the same."

Basch looked from the speaker to his twin. Noah met and held his brother's gaze, but tension played in the undercurrents of his eyes and hardened the angles of his features. Without realizing, Basch spoke. "Noah, what have you done?"

"'Twas I directed Gabranth-Noah…" Zargabaath amended the address and then frowned, uncomfortable with the informality, for never did he address his colleagues so lightly.

"I have questioned the prisoner." Noah commandeered the explanation, pulling control and blame away from Zargabaath, knowing Basch's query and crossness were meant only for him.

"You questioned…" The information processed rapidly, and Basch's briefly gaping mouth snapped shut with an audible clash of teeth. Noah saw the slight tremble of anger in his lips. When Basch had regained enough self-rule to manage his words, he continued with such force and fury that Zargabaath averted his eyes to the paperwork on his desk, uncomfortable with the heated emotion burning in the atmosphere between the brothers. "You risked all we have fought for, all that those who have fallen died for, Larsa's very life and any hope for continued peace, to interrogate an inmate in _my_ charge?" There was a cold end to the fiery accusation. "I had _thought _you had entrusted these things to _my_ keep."

Noah winced at the insinuations of betrayal and duplicity from Basch's lips. "I am still _myself_, brother. The truth was not difficult for the guards to believe once given reason, and reason was not difficult to find." It was an honest answer for a treacherous act.

"Well said," Zargabaath inserted quietly, "for you are _both _Gabranth."

The invisible cinders and icicles swirling overhead stilled, and the room fell to silence as something indefinable changed in Basch's eyes and Noah raked his teeth over a dry, lower lip.

Zargabaath revised, refined, and clarified his statement. "Not both Judge Magister, certainly, but you are both Gabranth. For, are not you each your mother's son?"

The calm that settled had all the grief and gray of the tomb, and when neither man he knew as Gabranth seemed inclined to speak, Zargabaath cleared his throat, rattled some papers, and reengaged. "What then have you learned?"

Noah's chest was tight, and it was enough that he should concentrate on breathing. It took seeing Basch's eyes flit toward the third figure in the room for his mind to recognize the question that had come to his ears. Noah pulled in a deep, measured breath and released it slowly. "Ransom Mondregon, he is named, and is cousin, so many times removed, of the Rozarrian throne." Without waiting for the first to process, he added, "General Argider controls the reins." Shadows crossed within Noah's eyes and he waited for the ripple of shock he knew would be coming. He did not wait long.

"Margrace!" Basch exclaimed, staggered. The news was dire. If the Senate learned that a member of the ruling family of the Rozarrian Empire, no matter how distant the tie…

Zargabaath gasped as if he'd been struck, and it was his face Noah was watching. "General Argider!" The name had been spoken in the clandestine councils of House Solidor in the days before Cassiel and Aleron had met their end. The Rozarrian General had condemned for treason and executed (records would only show he had died nobly in battle) a Lieutenant under his command, and he had stepped from his position soon after in favor of his handpicked replacement, one Dimas Apolinar.

Though the Lieutenant's family might see it otherwise, Rozarria had sacrificed little. There had been small reason with Emperor Gramis entrapped by his own connivers in the Senate. House Solidor had dearly paid.

If only the true manipulators could have been uncovered and exposed… If only some poisonous dart of information had been brought to light, some rumor or hearsay been given legs, some whispered lie conjured up as truth, then perhaps the schemers would have been held in check before irreparable damage had been done.

If only Gabranth had walked the shadows of the Palace in those days…

"I thought you might recall the good General, Zargabaath," Noah remarked quietly.

"Aye." With a sigh, Zargabaath resigned himself to the topic and set about to bring order to chaos. "There has been a question posed as to the circumstances surrounding the death of Cassiel Solidor and whether any threat from that day survived past his demise. I can tell you this: It was said that Cassiel Solidor, and his brother Aleron on his behalf, were conspiring with Argider's Lieutenant to overthrow the rule of both lands and claim some consolidated power. This power was, so their accusers claimed, to be secured by the alliance and with the help of the Rozarrian military. It was said most loudly and fervently by the late Chairman Gregoroth."

"Heh. Gregoroth." Noah held Zargabaath's gaze. "And so revenge overdue gave reason for naming the Chairman guilty of assassinating Lord Gramis."

"Lord Vayne's methods and madness were long past made one." Zargabaath returned to the exploration of a history he'd just as soon forget. "Gregoroth was a mere Senator at the time of the deaths of the elder sons. As is true of many others, his status rose with the fall of Cassiel." Zargabaath looked at once weary and drained and more grieved than but once (at the sentence of death set upon Judge Magister Drace) Noah had ever seen.

"Drace never believed their guilt."

"No." That same faraway look of sadness once present came again to Zargabaath's face and lingered. "And with just cause, for as Larsa, Cassiel had no capacity for deceit. Perhaps if he had been more adept with a lie, he might have lived. As it was, he was just careful enough to allow for the impression of guilt and not careful enough to fortify himself from those who would seize upon the opportunity."

"What of the other one?" Basch ran a hand impatiently through his trim blond mane.

"Aleron?" Zargabaath's eyes slipped to Noah with a curious glint. "Beyond the hand of young Lady Drace," Noah's eyes widened in genuine surprise, and Zargabaath's lowered in satisfaction, "Aleron had no ambition for himself. His loyalty was saved for Cassiel, and for this he died."

A decade and more since these sons of Gramis had been taken by whatever dark madness had been stirred in the pot of ambition and pride ever churning betwixt the great empires. It would be near twelve years time, as Basch calculated; Larsa himself was noted a yearling babe when the history books of Archadia claimed the glorious deaths of the elder sons came in battle against the enemy. Twelve years ago… What had he been doing then?

In the moment he questioned, Basch could feel the warm Dalmascan wind stirring in hair still long enough to catch the sand and be plastered to his neck with a paste of grime and dried sweat. He could hear the cries of fear and bravery, smell the residue from explosive blasts, sense a shift in the wind as arrows and bullets left it outpaced, see the unnatural flashes of light blocking out the stars, and feel the gathering of the armored Chocobo that bounded powerfully along beneath him, carrying him down the line as he held forth his sword and shouted commands.

If the news of the deaths of the oldest sons of House Solidor had been more than unimportant, it had only been pleasant news to those fighting the Empire's advance, as had he been. Two less Solidors to lead the Imperial armies against the free Kingdoms had not seemed such an undesirable thing, if it had seemed anything at all.

How could it be that as he now stood in this place, neatly shorn and growing accustomed to the chill lately kissing his cheek when he walked along the wall in the early morning breeze, that he was grieved for the vacancies at young Larsa's lonely table?

"Why the fear of scandal, the execution, and the need for a cover of deceit if there was no treason?" Echoes of a decade gone faded and fell into a dusky labyrinth reserved for silhouettes, specters, and shades as Basch kept the discussion moving.

The grimness lifted in part from Zargabaath's face. "There was no conspiracy to commit treason, of this I would stake my plate. But that is not to say that Cassiel did not have ties to Rozarria. It is not to say, indeed, that he did not engage in talks with members of the Rozarrian authority."

Basch glanced over to his brother. "As when Larsa travelled to Mt. Bur-Omisace and spoke to Al-Cid in hopes of averting war with Rozarria?"

"Yes." Zargabaath's smile held a touch of relief that clouded to regret. "Just so. In both cases, hope was answered in tragedy. As did Larsa engage in talks outside of Lord Vayne's consent, so Cassiel made his attempt without the approval of Lord Gramis and, perhaps most importantly, without the sanction of the Senate. A few of the inner circle of the Senate, with Gregoroth leading the crusade, threatened to use the charges against the sons as means to formally challenge the right of leadership of House Solidor." Zargabaath studied the floor and spoke contemplatively. "Whether Cassiel and Aleron were traitors or no became irrelevant, and in the greater purpose of preserving the power of the Solidor name, their deaths became acceptable loss to their father who saw them made a liability and embarrassment weakening his claim. Vayne's bloody part both proved his loyalty to Gramis and the ruthlessness of House Solidor to all enemies. With the deaths of the elder sons, talk of conspiracies and treason faded away like plumes of smoke. …But those fires never completely die. They only smolder, waiting for new opportunity to flare."

"And here they will find opportunity." Noah called attention to an ill-omened truth. "Larsa's enemies will say that House Margrace has engaged in an act of war by sending one of their own as a spy to assassinate a prisoner in our keep. They will demand retribution. Archadia will again be at war…and this time, it will be with Larsa forced to stand at the bloody helm."

"Perhaps," Basch interrupted quietly, "this is as Argider and his ilk wish. Perhaps the spy's discovery was anticipated. If Argider and his allies were in the past wishful of using scandal as a means of weakening the foundations of the Houses of Margrace and Solidor with the intent to see them fall, the end goal Ranel's contact stated is very much the same…"

Noah watched him thoughtfully. "Yes, this could be, though, if so, Ransom Mondregon was sent without such knowledge. Still, it might have been a calculated risk. Whether he succeeded or failed, was discovered or no, their plan would have advanced... Yes, I can see this possibility." A note of accord wakened in Noah's eyes.

Zargabaath took a turn around the border of the spacious room, putting the past aside for a moment to deliberate on the state of the Archadian military machine. The mist powered light shining from within large crystal votives upon the wall made the officer's armor spark and glow as he passed. "Much as I am loath to speak it, we all know well that the Archadian forces were badly served under Vayne Solidor's hand. The Empire lost many warriors and many officers. Our agents on the ground were scattered. Who can say how many are left?" He studied Noah from across the room and continued on. "The spirit of our cadets was bent. We see fewer recruits. Though we, you and I," he motioned toward Basch, "and those who serve under us have worked to reform and replenish the Empire's military might, we are not yet to strength great enough to sustain a full out assault-or to defend against one without terrible loss, the likes of which Archadia herself might never recover."

Zargabaath turned one of the sconces to the side, and suddenly the light in the room dimmed as upon the wall materialized an active map of Ivalice with the military units of the Empire, her allies, and here enemies clearly marked.

The three men stood somberly, imagining the grim scenario that could so quickly and easily be played out in this deadly game of war and peace.

"And so, we must avoid war," Basch stated flatly and firmly. He exhaled slowly, putting aside his frustration with his twin in favor of shoring up Larsa's defense. "What is your aim, Noah?"

Noah spoke softly. "Al-Cid will have information about this prisoner and the state of House Margrace. He cannot be called to meet with Larsa without alerting our enemies. I will go to him."

"Good." Zargabaath nodded thoughtfully.

Noah felt Basch's eyes on him, and when his brother spoke, it was with a cool shade of distance in his tone. "Our allies must be prepared and strengthened. Queen Ashelia must be informed of what we have learned, and Ondore must be made aware of the threat. I will see to it."

In harmony, the brothers turned their smoky blue eyes to Zargabaath.

"I…" All these years of carefully sealing the tomb of the past, and now here he must break open the crypt and call forth the dead. His shoulders raised and fell in a silent sigh. "While our men in the field continue to gather information on the Meret Denali connection, I will seek further clarity on the circumstances leading to the deaths of Cassiel and Aleron Solidor. If there is a tie to the present, it will be found." Grimly, he met Noah's eyes and then Basch's. "If the past has come back to haunt House Solidor…"

There was a collective intake of breath, and then as one the three men spoke. "We must protect Lord Larsa."

* * *

When Noah had excused himself from the gathering with "I will see to the boy" and a nod of deference to Zargabaath (Basch noted the same was returned), Basch strode toward the door.

"Judge Magister Gabranth, might I impose upon you to linger but a moment?" Zargabaath halted Basch's exit with the titled address.

"Your Honor." Basch turned back, still somewhat sullen in his irritation that Zargabaath had interfered in what should have been his call, a matter Zargabaath brought to the forefront.

"You must indulge my meddling, Gabranth, for I find your brother's particular talents are a resource we need. Though Judge Magister no longer, he is a valuable agent of the Empire. Few are as accustomed to the shadows as he."

Basch bristled. "Under Larsa's guidance, the Empire will emerge from the shadows."

Zargabaath's expression was one of melancholy admiration. "Your faith in our Emperor commends you." The words were granted with sincerity and without the challenge previously levied in the use of _our Emperor. _And then the officer continued with quiet grimness. "There will always be shadows, Gabranth, and need for men with the skill to walk therein."

"Necessity is the excuse of all who work dark deeds under the cover of anonymity. I don't like it." Basch shook his head and physically turned as if to do so put the idea away.

Zargabaath leaned back in his chair. "Did ever you win a battle alone, Basch fon Ronsenburg?" Zargabaath's mournful smile was of a man older than the Judge Magister's years. "Once our number was greater than two. Once these halls were ripe with the Elite Knights of House Solidor. Between some there were friendships. Between others, no love lost. Rivalries and affections sprung up. Yet each had a unique place and served a particular purpose." He smiled lightly. "Now, it is true, I care little to claim your affection, but I do not need your affection to see that you bring your own gifts to the Magistry and to the service of our young Emperor. You inspire our young Lord, and those who serve under your command hearken to your call. One should not overlook the importance of an ally no matter the circumstance that brings him to you."

The regard and offering of trust in Zargabaath's words soothed Basch's pride and quieted his dissention. He watched as Zargabaath pondered in silence and waited as the gray eyes lifted again to his face.

"He is your brother-your blood. What would you have him do? Return home, if home can be found? And do what there? Tend the fields? Become a hunter of beasts in place of men?" Zargabaath paused before sharing his practical conclusion. "Such a man has need of being useful. T'would be folly to discount the usefulness of such a one to _us_."

* * *

When Noah entered the quarters housing Sir Jolon and Faolyn and found the boy's bed empty, panic shot through his veins, and he turned so quickly that the cloak caught hold and upset a cart of empty crystal vials. Their presence, scattering with a melodic chime across the floor at his feet, brought him to a conclusion he dreaded but could not repel. With the quickness of his heart driving his feet, Noah rushed to make a quick review of the suite. Being at one satisfied that the rooms were vacant and terrified to find them so, back toward the door he went, and came face to face with Basch.

"Noah?"

A look between them brought the alarm Noah felt to Basch.

"Larsa?"

Noah's wordless shake of the head made Basch's jaw tighten and his lips press into a hard line. Both sets of eyes were darkened under lowered brows.

"Medical ward."

"Larsa's quarters."

Noah pulled the hood of his cloak back up and exited to go one way. Basch replaced the Judge Magister's helm and made for the other. It was then that Basch recalled the web of secrecy he must mend. "Noah," he hissed in a muted but commanding tone, "this way." Noah balked and scowled, jerking his head to direct their path toward the elevator that would take them to the medical ward. Basch sternly countered, shaking his head purposefully this way and that before growling through the echo of the helm, "Now!" Noah snarled and hesitated, but knowing hesitation and conflict would cost them too-precious time, he surrendered to Basch's will only for the sake of expediency and with an angry sneer. Nonetheless, they were in perfect step as they broke into a controlled near-run, hurrying as fast as they dared along their route to Larsa's private chambers.

"Ho, Gabranth!"

The two skidded to a halt and whirled in unison. Though hidden by hood and helm, they were so evenly matched in build, gait, and mannerism, down to the very angle upon which they stopped and swiveled their necks to view the speaker, that no two creatures handpicked for uniformity and trained by the masters of synchronization could have been so evenly set and finely harmonized. The observer noted this with a humorless sniff.

"Tarachande!"

"Sir Jolon!"

The elderly noble had a hand raised, his hand loosely waving them toward him with a minimal circling motion. Seeing that the look upon his lined face was mild for him, Noah's heart rate began to regulate. Sensing his twin's reaction, Basch took some small comfort, but still, as he removed the helm and tucked it beneath his arm, he looked eagerly for sight of the child Emperor.

"I presume you seek your misplaced charges. Well, come along, lads. Don't dawdle mindlessly in the hallway like a pair of royal fools." The elder turned and walked away with the air of authority and the expectation of being obeyed.

Basch shot Noah a look of incredulous dismay that was answered with a roll of the eyes, tilt of the lips, and a sigh.

Their hurried pace slowed to an excruciating crawl in keeping with the leisurely amble of the old man, and only the disciplined respect of the younger men kept them from impatiently passing by. Instead, they counted the beats of the elder's cane tapping a rhythm against the gleaming granite and watched the reflection of his brocade robe sweeping like a pendulum before them.

"Behold the lost lambs." The old man turned a corner and waved his cane like a pointer before him.

"Zecht's quarters?" Noah's confusion met Basch's ears, and his brother tilted his head slightly to speak privately to his twin.

"It has been put to other use."

"A trophy room! Ha! Wouldn't Zecht like to see this!" Noah whispered his surprised exclamation as they followed the old man's direction into the chamber.

Basch saw the amusement on Noah's face and smiled.

Noah quirked an eyebrow at his twin. "Do you and Zargabaath come here often to polish old battle loot and compare scars?"

Basch rolled his eyes at the teasing. "Hush. It was Larsa's idea, and his to enjoy."

As Noah viewed the gallery of portraits, suits of armor, and weaponry on display, he noticed that the portraits of Ghis and Bergan had been relegated to a far corner where they did not have to be noticed if it was not wished while Zecht, Drace, and Zargabaath had prominent placement. And there in their midst was his own portrait…or was it?

Noah lowered his already hushed tone and subtly pointed toward the portrait. "Which of us-?"

"You, of course."

"Why-?"

"No scar."

"Oh. Right. You know, I'm sure they could-"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, I was just-"

"Forget it, Noah."

"Hhhh… Fine."

"Heh. Fine."

It had been part of the pomp and circumstance when he had been given the position to be fitted with a new suit of specially designed armor and to have his painting made. (The paintings then had hung along the Hall of the Magistry.) It had all been disconcerting and awkward. Zecht had not helped, coming by to stare and offer his brand of encouragement to the Imperial artist. _"Think of the symbolic tie to his armor, and add a set of horns here," _he'd said_; "and there is needed more fullness to the chin," _he'd claimed_; _and_ "the nose isn't quite long enough. An inch or two more, I'd think."_ It was a testament to the talent and unflappable calm of the artist that the portrait had been completed with a decent resemblance.

"There" Basch, relaxed now that he had his charge in sight, gestured toward the lads. "You can see that Larsa takes great pleasure in these grand...er…" He scratched the back of his head and shrugged. "Toys?"

Larsa's fine suit of richly tailored clothes was rumpled just slightly from his nap upon the lounge at Faolyn's bedside, but he walked proudly and pulled himself to full height. Faolyn, taller than Larsa by several inches without trying, was wrapped loosely in a coverlet, white-blond hair wildly disheveled, and bare toes poking out as he padded along after the boy Emperor. Noah smiled to see the two lads together. It did his heart good to think that the unlikely duo might find friendship.

The boys had stopped by a glass display case that ran the length of the room, and Noah could see that Larsa was in deep discussion, explaining some matter of intense importance to his new friend. As Larsa's speech ended, Faolyn turned toward the approaching party, and Noah's heart sank as he saw in the boy's eyes that he was aghast with repulsion and fear. And then he saw why.

"You kept it."

"It was important to Larsa…and to me."

Noah felt the sentiment in his twin's words and shifted slightly toward his brother even as Faolyn came to his side and pulled into the shelter of his arm. Staring past Larsa's bewildered eyes to the shattered helm he'd once proudly worn, Noah could feel again the cinders of molten steel and smell once more the scent of his own flesh burning as his wounds were cauterized by the flame. He had held no thought but to gather the remnants of his broken honor and make his end count for Larsa, for Basch, and for himself that day. He'd never have guessed he'd live to look back.

"Noah, I want to go home." Faolyn's frightened, youthful voice carried in the silence of the chamber, and both Noah and Basch saw Larsa's happiness fall like a stone to the ocean floor.

Basch closed the distance between himself and the young Emperor with his long strides, and sought to ease the sting of the other boy's words with a light smile. "I wonder if Faolyn would agree with Zargabaath's opinion as to the influence creatures and strange beings have had on the designs of the Imperial Elite armor. Maybe tomorrow you can show him the Official Imperial Bestiary with its depictions of the Espers and see." Basch set his own helm down beside Noah's broken one.

Noah's eyes softened at the move though he was lost in thought. Basch's suggestion to Larsa reminded him of the goods he and Faolyn had bought at the Faire: the bestiary, art supplies, and carved figures. Had the old man carried them away with him? He glanced back and saw that the elder had taken to a high-back leather chair and was now soundly nodding in sleep. He'd have to ask when it was more convenient. "Come, Faolyn." He coaxed the boy with a gentle nudge and a smile, and they took their place behind Larsa and Basch.

Basch glanced over his shoulder and saw his brother pause before a suit of armor worn once by Judge Magister Drace. The sadness and regret upon Noah's face could not be missed, but he met Basch's eyes and smiled tiredly.

"Just a little while longer, Lord Larsa," Basch cautioned. "Night is already upon us, and the dawn brings new challenges we must all face." He held his brother's gaze.

"Yes, Basch. Just a little while longer." Larsa glanced fleetingly at Noah, whose strong arm was drawn around Faolyn's thin shoulders, and hesitantly rested a hand upon Basch's left arm as they walked. Basch reached across and covered the small hand with his large right.

And Sir Jolon snored on, at home at last in the luxury and ease of the Palace, as the muffled voices and muted steps of the guardians and their charges filled the air around him with a gentle yet halting tune.


	44. The Way Home

"Such a man has need of being useful."The words had been meant for Gabranth, but when Zargabaath had reached down to touch the folder on his desk, his thoughts were on another. A decade of service Pryderi had given the Empire, and now what of it?

If there was anything more difficult as a commanding officer than to inform a family of their loved one's death in battle it was to walk the hallways of the Imperial Army Medical Center where the most seriously injured were treated through their recovery-or until their final battle was lost and they succumbed to their wounds. Mangled and scarred bodies filled the rooms.

He'd looked into the hollow eyes of those who'd left a part of themselves on the field of battle; he'd felt the shame of the ones whose faces no longer could express the pain they carried. Potions and healing magicks could do only so much, and sometimes opportunity for healing came too late.

Warriors who had stood tall and strong in defense of the Empire were rendered helpless to defend themselves against the shocked eyes of well meaning visitors and innately repulsed or terrified reactions of their loved ones. Not all those lost were killed by the sword, bullet, arrow, or fire. Some were killed by the shift to shame from pride in a loved one's eyes.

Draklor scientists, when not inventing weapons and machines of war, had made other great advancements over the years, creating replacements for limbs and eyes and more. These could function and sense almost as well, by some it was claimed better, than what was lost. And yet the loss could never be replaced, and even if so, broken spirits were not as easily mended as bodies.

"_It changes a man, meeting death,"_ his father had said.

Resting finally in the peace and quiet of his quarters, Zargabaath listened to the soft melodic sounds of waves and wings drifting from the magicked orbs stationed strategically around his bedroom suite. The pattern usually relaxed him after a long, difficult day, and eased him into calm sleep. Not so this night.

After hours of restlessness through which he drifted repeatedly into unsettled sleep only to waken with shuddering chills and lingering fog of dreams, Zargabaath at last reconciled with fated sleeplessness. Throwing silk-sheathed legs over the side of his expansive bed, he sat a moment to get his bearings until he felt his heart rate settle into its usual, easy rhythm.

He first ran long fingers through his wiry waves and then reached to turn the bronze dial efficiently located within arm's length of his sitting position. Light glowed softly at first and then strengthened, timed to allow for a happier adjustment than what was found upon the Alexander. In conjunction with the rise of light, the birds and waves fell silent, confined in wait for release of night.

His fingers found the carved fowl serving as the base for the lamp that decorated the end table and traced the intricate, precise cuts that gave the creature its lifelike beauty. His sight rested on the folder he'd carried from his offices to deposit here. Again he heard his father's voice. _"But if it is not the end, well then, it is not the end." _

It was less decision than surrender that took him through the rooms of the meticulously ordered suite and to his dressing chamber. He went through the motions in practiced order unchanged: every button, every strap, every section of polished plate. His fingers knew the beat and time.

The small Imperial airship he requisitioned for his excursion was secured with the best of Draklor's materials. The window panes were reinforced, the frame extraordinarily impact resistant, a magick resistant shield added defense, and if danger approached, there would awaken no small arsenal of firepower. Yet, the clean cut lines and simple outer design made it a less conspicuous means of traveling than most of the highly ornate vehicles he might have requested. Only a small symbol on the rear panel revealed that a member of the Imperial court was hidden behind the darkened glass and not simply one of many well-to-do among the Archadian citizenry.

The buildings in this sector of town were graceful, and their quality was shown in the elegant lines and sturdy bones. Still, the architecture revealed the age of the structures, and other signs there were: thick ivy, worn bricks and stone, oxidized copper and darkened brass. Even the thickness and height of the occasional tree planted in a carefully kept yard here or there showed the maturity of the neighborhood, for in this cloistered, sedate area, steel and stone made way for plots of green with prior claim.

Leaving the ship behind with its pilot keeping watch, Zargabaath approached the door like a stranger.

He lifted his hand hesitantly and then, before he could change his mind, took hold of the brass door knocker. A swift, brisk rap sent a clear signal of his presence, and there came an almost immediate response.

"May I help you, Sir? Sir!" Proper courtesy changed to excitement, and the white haired servant clapped his hands together in glee. "Oh, come in; do come in!"

In the days before the death of the Empress Consort, before the loss of Cassiel and Aleron had fractured forever the happier illusions of House Solidor, there had been many grand balls and other such orchestrated, official merriments to engage in. The elder Zargabaath's had oft times then been seen at the Palace, for his father had been in favor with the Emperor since his days in service as a Judge, and his mother was highly regarded for her scientific research. He had also himself more frequently returned to this noble, though humbler, place. The end of peace within House Solidor had been the end of many things. Duty had called him and kept him. There were things that must needs be accepted. A man grows from a lad and cannot turn back.

Zargabaath stepped inside, his booted footstep echoing off porcelain tiles. From his vantage here in the entry, he could see one of the tall, straight columns he knew bore the weight of the roof as well as serving decorative purpose. He could see the beginning of the smooth banister of the stairwell. He knew it curved up to the balcony of the second floor. At one end of the hallway up those stairs would be found the bed chambers of the master and mistress of this home. At the other would be found the unoccupied quarters of the boy whose shadow was known well here. The shadow of the man the boy had become was less known here but no less welcome. He was at peace with this place and it with him.

He made his way inside. It was as he'd expected. From the color of the drapes to the carpets and the crystal chandeliers, nothing had changed. Here at least, nothing ever did.

"Theron! Oh, my dear, Theron!" Parisa Zargabaath hurried toward him, anxiously tucking a steely wisp behind her ear and hiding away a notepad and pen in the pocket of her floor length overskirt so that she might meet him with outstretched hands.

He smiled and met her with a kiss to the cheek, and she placed a hand on each of his armored shoulders and looked long into his eyes. It came to him then that perhaps after all he was wrong. Perhaps some things had changed. Never in his memory could he recall his mother seeming ruffled or hurried. The cause was charged to his account.

"Mother." He spoke gently, and her expression changed to calm strength and radiant pride. She took his arm so that he might escort her properly, and he obliged without thought. He had been so taught.

"Your father will be pleased to see you." She patted his arm.

He observed that at the corners of her eyes were a few more lines than he remembered from their last meeting. Had it really been nigh a year? Still, all in all, he was satisfied that she remained well.

"Where is father?" It was a nonsensical question and emphasized the degree of his neglect, but his mother graciously took no notice.

"He will be in his workshop." She was studying him again, and he felt her gaze keenly. "Breakfast will be served in half an hour, Theron. I will tell Cook to add a place."

There was no question of whether he would linger to partake. He would stay.

"Collect your father, will you? You know the way."

Yes, he knew. How many hours had they spent there, just the two of them? Too many to count. Too many to remember. He wished he could remember each treasured one now.

Zargabaath found he'd become so accustomed to the Palace that the noble home he grew up in and had believed so large and impressive then now seemed small and quaint. The contrasting simplicity brought contented warmth to his heart. The hallways here were, by comparison to those he so lately walked, as close and intimate as an embrace. Though the ceilings here were raised, they seemed to him so near that he should be able to reach up and touch the very pinnacle with his outstretched hand. Instead, he reached to touch the walls flanking him and smiled at how his elbows remained bent close to his sides as the uneven texture of the vintage treatment traveled beneath his fingertips.

Carefully arranged portraits of his ancestors hung along the hallway: scientists, warriors, senators. When he was a boy, he'd had to stretch and stare upward to the faces of those who'd gone before him, hoping that he would one day earn their pride. The man he was could meet the eyes of his forebears directly and know he had earned a most honored place within their ranks.

There was the library. There, his mother's office. There, behind that shut door, was the place where he studied as a small child. He paused. It was becoming a collection of his mother's castoff books and his father's orphaned works when last he'd visited. He placed a hand on the same knob he'd turned as a lad and opened the door to see the stacks of books and lines of curiosities all neatly kept in neglected rows. He pulled the door shut.

Out the back door and across a small path bordered in delicate blooms and dark foliage to an adjacent building, Zargabaath walked. The door before him needed a new coat of white. His vigilant eye caught sight of a splinter there and here a chip.

A knock at the door gave no answer, but Zargabaath could hear clanking and rustling inside. He turned the knob and felt the door scrape as he opened it. The foundation had settled.

For a moment he simply stood quietly in the doorway and watched as the man worked with the chisel and wood. The rays of early morning light filtering through the opening behind him exposed the sawdust floating in the air.

Why, he suddenly wondered, had he worn his full suit of armor for the visit?

"Father?"

The figure continued on as if he was not come, and Zargabaath took a step forward.

The light dancing freely across the room now that Zargabaath's tall form was not there to block it hit the man and broke his concentration. For a moment he frowned and squinted into the light. "Shut that door, woman. Do you want to let all the fresh air in?" It was the same good natured complaint Zargabaath heard so many times before, but this time his mother wasn't there to return in kind.

"Hello, father."

The man put a hand up as a shield from the glare, and for too long the only sound heard was of a bird that had chanced to follow Zargabaath through the open door and now couldn't find the way out.

"Well." Accius carefully placed the tool upon the table where he worked and then pulled the gloves from his hands. "Well." It seemed all he could say as he rounded the stacks of boards between them.

The limp that Zargabaath remembered as a child seemed more pronounced now. Was that a trick of his eye or a lie of his memory? In any case, Zargabaath moved forward to cut the distance and save his father from dragging his stiffened leg.

"Theron. How are you, son?"

Zargabaath reached out to clasp his father's hand. The hand that took his was even now firm and steady, but there was a degree of thinness to it that had once not been, and Zargabaath looked more closely at the man before him.

Accius Zargabaath's wiry mess of untidy hair had once been warm brown but had faded to a sandy shade as it became speckled with white. The craggy face of the father was still handsome and exuded strength, but the lines there were deeper than the son recalled, like paths carved into leather. The hand that held tightly his was dappled with age spots.

"Well." Again the word repeated from his father's lips, but though his words were few, the pride in Accius's gray eyes was clear. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Judge Magister?" Now the pride was blazing and with it a touch of humor sparked, crinkling the deep lines at the corner of his eyes.

And to what, at that? Zargabaath met his father's eyes in silence, and Accius studied him closely for a moment before patting him briskly on the arm and turning back toward his workbench. "Come, Theron. Lend a hand."

Zargabaath hesitated. It had been a dozen years and more since he'd last sat beside his father and whittled the hours away.

Accius seemed not to notice his son's surprise and disconcertion. He grunted as he settled on the stool and reached for a gouge. "There" Accius lifted a hand to indicate another stool propped in the corner, and Zargabaath heeded the instruction, placing the one beside the other, and taking his own place at his father's side.

The Judge Magister's armor rattled and clanked as he tried to adjust to the awkward seating. This wasn't his well padded office chair; it wasn't his Commander's seat upon the Alexander.

"Take what you need." Accius didn't lift his eyes from the piece he smoothed as he directed his son to the tools and wood upon the surface.

Zargabaath felt the smooth texture of the wood and inhaled the soft scent.

"You must begin to end." Accius prompted as his son failed to act.

Zargabaath frowned and waited. "I am without a plan."

"It's a block of wood, Theron," his father reminded with watchful eyes, "not a battlefield. If one piece is ruined, discard it, and take another in its stead. Wounds inflicted here are of no consequence."

Zargabaath looked to his father with troubled eyes and then away, sinking the tool into the wood and staying with the grain, as his father had taught him.

They had worked for some time, Zargabaath's mind elsewhere as he cut and smoothed the wood under his father's watch, when his father spoke.

"I hear always good concerning young Larsa."

"Aye. He is a remarkable lad."

"And yet, still a lad." Accius held out a tool and pointed toward a chisel at his son's left hand, and Theron at once made the exchange.

"Yes. That he is."

"And should be."

"Indeed."

Accius watched his son as they both continued to work. So it was not Larsa that Theron had come to discuss. Well, what must be said would be said when Theron was ready. There was no rushing him. To try was to earn the medal of frustration and to be instructed in the practice of futility.

"Father, I wonder…?"

"Aye, son?"

"Your wound…"

"Aye." Accius tapped his stiff leg with the chisel. "Your mother contends it's a mark of character." He chuckled. "In all these many years, I've yet to determine whether she means as punishment for too much character or a replacement for lack." He waved the tool as if it mattered not either way and winked.

Zargabaath smiled softly at the unfinished work in his hands. He could imagine his parents in the midst of this lighthearted exchange. There would be no winner in the debate, for the pleasure was in the jousting.

"What of it, boy?" Accius readdressed the question gently, the humor quieted in his eyes.

To be called a boy at forty. Zargabaath's lips softened and then again sobered.

"If not for the wound, you'd have remained with the Imperial Army."

"It was my plan." Accius smiled and reengaged his work. "Plans change."

Theron studied his father with drawn brow. "A Judge in the Emperor's favor would soon enough been Judge Magister. It could not have been easy to leave such a life behind."

Accius stopped and set the chisel down. "True enough, I admit. I had my future firmly set, and in one flash of chaos and regret, all was lost; I was lost." For a moment the elder Zargabaath's face grew somber, and then he smiled. "But then, if I had not been lost, your mother would not have found me." He looked off into the distance, into a past his son had not seen. "I traded armor and a sword for a wife and, soon enough, a son." He looked to the armored figure beside him and his eyes gentled. "I have no regrets."

"And what if…" It felt wrong to speak to his father of such intimate things, and the words came awkwardly from a tongue that felt too thick. "What if love had not been the answer?"

"Well…" Accius shifted and inhaled the dusty air as he pondered. "Then I should hope there would have come some other task I might have fulfilled. A man must find purpose if he is to survive."

Zargabaath set the block of wood and tool down as he considered his father's words, not so different than his own spoken earlier to Basch fon Ronsenburg, Larsa's _new_ Gabranth. His father's clarity and affirmation smoothed down the splinters and rough edges of recent events and shaped the idea forming within Zargabaath's mind.

Accius' eyes narrowed and hid themselves in folds of laugh lines and beneath the shade of a craggy brow as he studied his son. Forty years just. A man full grown and in the prime. Not as forceful in strength as perhaps he'd been at twenty, but here sat a man of skill and experience and discipline worth a dozen men half his age.

Zargabaath felt his father's gaze.

"You are…in good health, son?"

"Aye, father. I am well."

"The Emperor's Elite Order of Knights has lost many members these past years. The Zecht boy, young Bergan, Ghis, the Drace girl… I grew up beside and served with many of their fathers, you know, and knew their families well."

"I know."

"So young to fall, but such is the life."

"Aye."

"When one survives as others do not, one is made to…consider certain questions." There was a change of direction in the elder Zargabaath's voice that could not be denied.

"Father?" Zargabaath shifted, ill at ease with the turn in the conversation.

The door opened again, and the bird circling the room flew for freedom when the dancing shafts of light pierced the shadowed room.

"Shoo!" The family retainer stood framed in the doorway, waving at the winged escapee flying overhead as if it required encouragement in its wild flight. The bird gone, the servant addressed the male Zargabaaths. The son noted that the servant spoke more loudly now when addressing the father. "Madame Parisa wonders if you intend to join her for breakfast, Sirs. May I tell her you are on your way?"

"Thank you, Lazroff." Accius acknowledged the message, and the aging servant nodded and gave Theron a pleased smile before returning to his errand.

Accius set his tools in their place and tidied his work surface before leaving the stool with a light grunt. "Nigh thirty years I waited for her, and forty years and more I have waited on her since. I deem she can wait just a few minutes on my account." But even as he grumbled, the elder Zargabaath limped past his son. "Come, Theron." Accius put a hand to his leg with a pained grimace, and when the father placed his free hand on the armored shoulder of the son, Theron knew not whether it was a gesture of affection or to steady his stride. "A wise man keeps not love waiting past time."

* * *

"It's pretty out here, don't you think? Peaceful?" It was cool too, exposed to the breeze in the Palace gardens, but the green of the landscape lawns and trees would be a welcome relief to a boy not accustomed to so many walls and confines as lately had been set around him. Or so was Noah's hope.

"I want to go home." For the umpteenth time, the boy repeated his desire with a mixture of childish plea and adolescent demand.

Noah rested a hand against his nose, restlessly tracing the bridge with his index finger as he rubbed the curve leading from eye to brow with his thumb and tried not to betray vexation. "I know, Faolyn, I know. Try to understand. When I get back-"

"I don't _understand_ why you must go at all!" Their progress was interrupted as Faolyn blocked his path with tightly clenched fists. The angry accusation in Faolyn's eyes brought color to the pale orbs. The weakness that had sapped his strength was gone. "It isn't your job to take care of _Larsa_ anymore!" He spit the name like something rotten and full of worms from his mouth. "Let Basch do it!"

Noah shot Faolyn a warning glance and quickly scanned the area to assure himself none other was present to overhear the remark. Satisfied they were alone, he returned to Faolyn with a quiet sigh. The addition of the boy's petulance to the stress of the situation frustrated Noah, though he knew at heart that it was fear that gave rise to the aggressive resistance. He wanted to make Faolyn understand, to tell him that there were things beyond those demanded that were rightfully required of a man. Knowing the lad was in no mood to hear, instead he offered a distraction. "Faolyn, would you like to see the City with me?"

"No." The blunt, contentious reply set Noah back, and his brows lifted as he looked down at the lad.

"Perhaps you have spent too much time with the old man to have gained such a willful tongue." Noah's mild rebuke was accompanied by a pointed stare, and Faolyn flushed.

"Sorry." The apology was sullenly delivered, and in the aftermath they stood in silence together in the garden, feeling the chill of the breeze more intensely in the stillness. And then Faolyn spoke again, his voice broken and hushed. "I'm sorry. I want to see the City with you." His expression contrite, he looked up at Noah for reassurance.

_Looking down at the boy, Noah felt a wave of nostalgia draw him into the current of the past._

"_I know! Let us set out on a tour of the City!" His mother smiled with more appearance of cheer than he knew she felt and put a hand out for his. "There are things I'd like you to see of my home." In this, he heard a desperate plea that he could not refuse._

_Only days removed from their perilous escape from the broken remains of Landis, and still reeling from all he'd been forced to face and even yet could not accept, Noah yielded with a halfhearted smile and feeble reply. "Of course, Mother." _

_Against his will, for he'd yet learned the art of a lie, his tone betrayed reluctance, and the fresh lines about her eyes deepened. "Are you not feeling well?" _

"_Don't mind me, Mother. I'm just not quite myself. Still tired, I suppose." Noah recognized his mistake and rebounded with an apologetic grin. Nonetheless, the brief flash of white too soon disappeared, overshadowed by the moody clouds of his eyes. _

_Yes, he was tired. To the bone, he was tired. To the heart. To the soul. _

_And not himself? The absence of Basch created a vacancy at his side that could not be filled. The permanently reserved space was cold and lonely and echoing with the hollow memory of his brother's calm voice and pleasant laughter. Sometimes he tried to imagine Basch there, but the image was askew. And somehow the same of his own reflection was true. Separated from his twin, he didn't recognize the face staring back from the mirror anymore. What he did see frightened him, and what he didn't, even more._

_His lips, so often sober now, stiffened. His brow lowered to create a dark line from his eyes. Delara turned away. The merriment she'd endeavored to conjure up for both their sakes drained from her face to be replaced by fatigue and anxiety. "Never mind, dear. We'll go another day." She turned her back to him and waved the idea away._

_The murky shadows inside his blue-gray orbs deepened and spread outward into the recesses below. "Mother…"_

_She waved him away without turning again. "Noah, see if Inar has any errands for you. I am…weary."_

_His lips parted to protest, but no words formed. He could not trust the words to be of the sort to help and not destroy. She wandered into the other room, looking as fragile as a porcelain doll. Noah watched in shamed fretfulness, but unable to find what was needed to mend what was broken, he left out the back door to dare the City. At the gate, his vision was disturbed by a splotch of color, a lavender hue. _

_Carefully he had trimmed a fistful of stems from the thick patch growing wild at the border of the fenced yard. Back inside, he had approached slowly, carefully, regretfully and disturbed her as she brushed tears away from her cheeks with shaking hands. _

_The weight of grief upon her was not placed by her son, but he could not see beyond the symptom to the seed and felt only the thorns. "Here, Mother." He held the petals toward her, feeling more a helpless twelve year old than a strapping youth of seventeen. _

"_They're beautiful, Noah. Thank you, dear." Her voice was weak as she accepted the gift, but her smile was genuine, and he took the opportunity given. _

"_As you rightly said, it is a beautiful day, Mother. And I would like to see the City with you." It was a half-lie. The ending of the statement was true. With you._

_He had been blind to much of what they'd seen that day, too much distracted with watching her for sign of physical or emotion distress to pay attention to the sites, but she had been happily diverted with the memories induced by the ride through the familiar streets._

"_There, Noah. Do you see that park? That's where my friends and I, Inar and others, met to pass the time away when we were youths of just about your age." It had been deserted then, and the colorful patterns that had once decorated the walks and benches and playful distractions were faded, but she had stared fondly at the lot, seeing things as they had been in a time Noah knew not._

" _Let's stop at that little pastry shop and get a treat. Your grandparents, I wish you had known them, brought me here many times when I was a child. I'll order for you. I think you'll like this one here…I always did." Seeing her happy like that, if only for a moment…he would have liked anything she gave him. _

"…_and our house was right about there. I'm sorry the City tore it down after my parents passed on. It would have been a nice place for you to live someday… But that's progress, I suppose." A wistful, lonesome quality returned to her voice, but gentleness remained._

"_I want you to see just this one thing more. Stop here, driver. Thank you. Walk with me, Noah." _

_His hand, once small and lost in his mother's, folded easily over hers. As he walked with her across a bridge that spanned one sector of the merchant district to another, he thought she was simply leading him to a shop on the other side. When she stopped, he must have looked as bewildered as he felt, because she gave his hand a squeeze and sighed. _

"_Your father and I walked here, the first night... It was snowing then." Her lips were soft and full, and her lashes rose and fell in a steady, slow rhythm. Inhaling deeply, she released the breath with a longing sigh. "He claimed it was beneath him, you know, to court an Archadian." She laughed aloud. It was the first time in so long. "My parents, my father most of all, felt entirely the opposite, and demanded I should look to the Imperial families of rank. But he was all I wanted, your father. I knew from the start, there could be nothing else and no one more... For him it was the same, I think. I'm sure." She smiled at some private amusement and fell into memories she wouldn't share with her son. _

_If only the days to follow had been as that one. Alas, his mother's happiness and health had wilted, faded, and brittle-dried like the petals and stems he cut away from their source of life._

The boy saw darkening shadows upon his guardian's face. "Don't be angry, Noah. I'll go. I want to go."

Faolyn's voice, remorseful and weak, reached behind the memories to stir him, and Noah reached out and wrapped a hand about the back of Faolyn's head, drawing the boy in closer. "I'm not angry, Faolyn. Come. It's a beautiful morn, and there are things I'd like to show you of this place I've called home."

* * *

The breakfast room of Zargabaath Manor was set about with windows, and early morning rays filtered through gauzy draperies to cast a prism of color upon crystal goblets, silver settings, and the armor of the honored son.

Household servants efficiently and silently came and went, filling glasses with juices, leaving chilled dishes of succulent fruit, and then exchanging the first for steaming platters of specially prepared meats with savory sauce, various cheeses, eggs, and breads.

The Judge Magister thought nothing of the display, and it was not because he had richer settings for use and a bevy of servants at beck and call in his life at the Palace. Theron Zargabaath could not recount a time in which he had not known the proper utensil to use, which drink was to be served with which meat, and all that was required in the etiquette of genteel dining. He had been taught well and had learned quickly. Perhaps this was why when then Emperor Gramis had summoned Accius to the Palace for council, the invitation more times than not included authority to bring along the son as companionship for his own young. With Theron five years elder than Cassiel Solidor, it had been a watcher's longsuffering duty in the early days, but the sessions had become more enjoyable as time closed the span between them.

"Ill fortune, I am told, has befallen House Ranel yet again. How goes it with Haleine?" Accius motioned to one of the servants, who quickly filled a cup with steaming brew.

"She is improving." The Judge Magister felt no inkling of remorse for withholding details surrounding the case, nor was there any resentment dealt him for the sparseness of his reply.

"Accius, business at the table?" Parisa gave her husband a reproving glance, and Accius' eyes sparkled with humor and challenge as he took a sip from his cup.

"And what, pray tell, do you have there with you, Parisa my pet? Could it be research for Draklor at this wee hour of the morn? Surely not."

His wife moved the napkin from her lap to cover the notepad beside her plate, and Accius laughed while their son took great pains with the cutting of his meat. Parisa returned the napkin to its place with a sniff and a dismissive wave of the hand. "Oh, poo." The younger Zargabaath could not repress the smile that tilted his lips, but his eyes stayed discreetly on the morsels set before him.

Accius chuckled as he drained his cup and settled back contentedly, eyes locked with his wife's. "Ah, son. Even a warrior must surrender in time."

Imperceptivity, Parisa pursed her lips and shook her head in warning, but Accius only smiled.

"Father?" The knife and fork stilled in Zargabaath's hand.

"Take a wife, boy!"

"Pater?" Shock loosed Zargabaath's grip, and the knife clattered against porcelain.

Accius sobered, shifted his focus to his son, and repeated again, more gently. "Theron…do an old man a favor, boy, while there is yet chance that I might see my grandchildren in this life. Take a wife."

* * *

"A fool of an old man," Parisa fumed sometime later as she immersed the dishes into foamy water.

"What are you talking about, woman? I merely gave the boy a push-"

"He is not a boy, Accius!"

"As was my point. And why do you not let the servants do their job, Parisa?"

"And when has goading ever worked with our boy? I like to wash the dishes, Accius."

"When you are angry."

"I am not angry. Get a dish cloth and dry."

"I was not goading, my beloved wife, and our Theron has always been up for a challenge." Accius grasped the bronze drawer knob and pulled, taking a towel from the stack and turning to the rinsed dishes.

"Concerning intellectual matters and physical contests, darling husband! Not in ways of the heart!"

"Well…"

"Well."

They stopped and faced one another with stubborn glares, and then Parisa returned to her task.

Accius sighed. "Can you blame an old man for trying, Parisa dear?"

Parisa's energetic scrubbing ceased. "Perhaps it would do no harm to research which upstanding Imperial families have eligible daughters of marriageable age..."

"My love, you are good to me." Accius reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"And don't you forget it." But the sharpness had gone from her tone.

"As if you'd let me, woman. …You know, you have suds on your nose." His eyes sparkled mischievously, boyish despite his years as he dabbed the bubbles away.

The corner of her mouth twitched, and she snatched the towel from his hands, snapping it playfully back at him. He caught it-and her.

"Now, Parisa, you'd not tolerate dishes with water spots."

"Oh, Accius." She sniffed and turned to hide the mirth rising in her eyes. "Let the servants do their job." She left the remaining dishes and took his arm, patting his hand fondly and walking in practiced time to his hindered step as they exited the room. "You know I only wash dishes when I'm angry."

"You don't say."

"Heh." She nudged his shoulder with her head, he smiled, and she went on. "Our Theron is a man hale and hearty, distinguished, and with a finely honed mind. What daughter of Archadia, be she of any worthy quality, would not desire such a man?"

"Aye, a fine son you've given me." He squeezed her familiarly.

"Like his father." She reached up to smooth his wiry curls, eyes soft as they took in every line of the beloved face.

"Ah, my dear. You are too good to me."

"Nonsense." Her voice was as gentle as his arm around her. "A woman knows best the worth of her man."

He opened the door for her. She waited contentedly for him to limp back to her side.

"Theron should come to dine with us every morn." Accius smirked at his wife and watched her reaction from the corner of his eye. "When was the last time you fed me like that, woman?"

"You, my dear, don't need it." She patted his soft midsection and felt it bounce with laughter under her touch. "What was on his mind, do you think…" Parisa sobered.

"Don't fret over it, love. You know our boy. He'll come around in his own good time."

"Heh. You so _now_ decide."

Accius chuckled, and Parisa rested her head on his shoulder. Arm in arm they walked the well-worn paths in the freshness of morning's light.

* * *

At the shadow of traffic overhead, Faolyn shivered and shrank back skittishly. His eyes darted to and fro as they followed the small, citizen-owned airships overhead. The boy's erratic breathing was evidenced by a vapor trail in the seasonally chilled morning air.

The Faire had given him a small taste of life outside his small world, and the painful experiences in Dalmasca had made him bolder in some respects. Still, he was at heart that shy, skittish wonder of a colt, wobbly on untested knees, experiencing his first spring. Noah took it as progress that the boy was not gasping in fear and ducking for cover into every doorway. …Only perhaps every other doorway.

Noah laughed to himself as he watched Faolyn's reactions to the airship traffic overhead and the ceaseless flow of Hume traffic on the street. As he observed from within the shield of his hooded cloak, never far from thought was the remembrance of his own feelings of trepidation when he was a youth and these things were new him. "Do you see the many variations of colors and designs of airships? See how that one there has sails while this one...no, this way…yes, there…has wings? See how that one there has a wooden hull, and this one is metal framed?"

Faolyn's breathing evened out as he studied the designs. "Uh-huh. Why are they so different like that?"

"More interesting this way, is it not?" Noah answered agreeably, and his carefully tranquil manner did its part to sooth the lad. "Wealth of the owner certainly plays a role, though many distinctions are set by preference. Tradition, power, beauty, imagination: the style of an airship may speak of any or all of these things. What would your airship look like if you could choose?"

"Like our dragon." For a second Faolyn's eyes were bright as he got caught up in the excitement of such a thought, but then he blushed and disconnected from the idea. "It's a stupid idea."

_Our_ dragon. The significance of the wording was not lost on Noah. The dragon had almost been the death of them, and the ensuing conflict with the boy's elder guardian had caused both grief. And yet, given chance, Noah knew the boy would be back at the cave polishing dragon scales, and he couldn't deny the desire to join in. "Not at all." An affectionate sentiment, he wished to say, is as worthy a reason as any and more so than most. How many ships bore the name of one beloved? Instead, he offered, "The designers of the military carriers and fighters at Draklor would also certainly find no fault. But then, you've not seen the Imperial Military fleet. Hm…"Noah studied Faolyn with a peculiar expression for a moment. "Well, that could be remedied."

"I just want to go home." Faolyn reverted to the safety of the familiar, but then, seeing the tension in Noah's face, he hastened to give just cause. "What will happen to Avalanche?"

"Avalanche?" Noah looked down at the boy, bewildered.

"The Chocobo." Again, Faolyn's pale cheeks were highlighted in red. His white-blond waves stirred in the breeze.

The boy's gaze was drawn in by the towering buildings they passed by, and he jumped repeatedly at seeing his own reflection in a shimmering pane of glass, a sheet of copper, or gleaming, high-polished marble. The sight of various statues effected reactions ranging from dismay to disgust, while fountains with their iridescent spray mesmerized. More than once Noah had to guide the lad's path to keep his charge from running headlong into a lamp post or street sign, Faolyn's vision was so otherwise occupied.

"You've named the Chocobo?" Caution crept into Noah's tone. Adeptly, he herded Faolyn down the sidewalks, across City streets, and out of the way of impatient pedestrians, and not only for the boy's sake. Noah watched closely for signs that the turbulent gift was not in control, but all seemed well enough, considering.

"Unhh." Splitting his attention between watching the boy and seeking out the streets for any hint of threat, Noah had little time for thinking of himself. A messenger slammed into his sore shoulder and continued on without looking back. Noah watched with conflicting irritation and amusement until the carrier turned the corner and disappeared from view. Once, that young man might have been him, running errands for Inar Ranel on the streets of the City. Strange that these same citizens who were jostling past without apology had cowered from his presence not so long ago when they knew him as Judge Magister Gabranth. A fitting adjustment that they should see him again as a stranger. He had never asked them to love him, and if they dismissed him now, all the better.

Faolyn shrugged. "I was going to name him Snow, because-"

"Because of the white plumage."

"Right." Faolyn grinned up at him.

"And Avalanche because his nature is wild and unrestrained? Because he is likely to run you over if you fail to move out of the way?" As he offered the lighthearted possibility, Noah thought back on those wild days of his own after the boy and old man had saved him. Cast out and deprived of any purpose other than the hunt, he had found singular pleasure in the capture of the rare beast and more later in watching the mutual attachment between the boy and the Chocobo.

"Because he has a lot of white feathers." Faolyn rolled his eyes and snorted.

"The old man would say he is a lot of trouble." Noah's comment was served up with a jesting tilt of the lips, but he watched to see the boy's reaction.

"I like him." Protectively, Faolyn rose to defend his pet. The boy was lean but growing taller these last months, and in the resolute intensity sharpening the planes of his face was the faint revelation of the man he would become. Much too soon, the boy was growing up.

Noah's expression grew pensive and guarded, but his words were kind. "And he you."

Returning to his list of worries, Faolyn demanded, "Who will feed him? What if he runs away?"

Noah hesitated. The boy stated well his own concerns. What if the Dalmascan guards had indeed let the creature go or, more likely given the rarity of a white, sold the beast to the highest bidder? What if it had been killed for its beautiful silvery white feathers, so coveted by collectors and artists? The scenarios made him wince. "When we return, I'll speak to Basch."

Faolyn looked cynically unconvinced.

"What about a Chocobo airship?" Noah's attempt to lighten the conversation worked as Faolyn smiled widely, a boy again. When he couldn't help adding, "It sounds like something best belonging to the Dalmascan Army," Faolyn laughed aloud, and Noah joined in with a chuckle.

Taking into account belatedly that he should be more careful of giving Faolyn further reason to harbor negative opinion of Dalmasca, Noah offered cover. "Ah, well. Whether or not their army is displayed as fierce or feathered, Dalmasca is now a friend."

Faolyn scowled and scoffed. He had seen what he had seen. It was enough. "A friend to Larsa, you mean."

"Who is a friend to me." Noah's gentle rebuke and a return of sobriety lowered Faolyn's eyes and smothered the contemptuousness that had abruptly flared within.

The scent of fried batter found Noah's nostrils, and he halted to scatter coins upon the counter of a street vendor's cart in exchange for two pastries. "Here." One he offered to the brooding lad, holding the end wrapped in a paper napkin out to him.

Faolyn screwed his face up dubiously. "What is it?"

Noah took a large bite, powdery white decorating the stubble along his lips, and nodded in satisfaction, pushing the other toward Faolyn insistently.

Faolyn frowned and finally accepted, tentatively licking the powdery topping. His eyes widened in surprise and Noah gave an approving grunt as Faolyn's nibbling test turned into a ravenous and somewhat violent gorging.

The youth finished before his guardian and so intently eyed the remainder of Noah's pastry that Noah tore off one last portion for himself and sacrificed the rest to the pale shadow of a lad with the bottomless pit of a stomach.

When Faolyn had finished, the boy accepted help brushing the powder from his tunic and grinned sheepishly as they continued down the street. "Sorry. It was really good."

"I thought you'd approve." Noah smiled. He said nothing of the first time he had tried one himself, and he carefully avoided mention of the fact that Larsa had loved these treats also, when Drace had allowed the indulgence…or simply not been made aware.

"This way." The unsettled feeling in Noah's stomach had nothing to do with what they'd eaten as he led Faolyn down paths once too familiar.

"Where are we going? I'm getting tired of walking."

So said the boy who had walked with him, and often sprinted ahead of him, for hours in the fields. Noah was amused, but he kept it to himself. "Just a little further. ...Here."

The fence was still strong, and the paint was crisp. The workers he'd hired had seen to their task. The gate creaked somewhat as he opened it, but it latched easily behind them.

"Where are we?" Faolyn stalled by the gate and then followed Noah on toward the humble house.

Trying the front door and finding it, as expected, locked, Noah motioned to Faolyn to join him as he walked around back. The boy hurriedly finished picking a fistful of stems from the sprawling overgrowth of lavender flowers and came to his side.

Noah reached out to finger the soft petals.

Faolyn held out the flowers like he wasn't quite sure what to do with them now that he had them, and Noah gave a smile though he turned from the sight.

"Keep them for now. There will be a vase inside." He knelt to reach his hand into a hole created by wear of time at the base of the stone porch steps, hoping some feral creature hadn't made the spot its bed.

"Where are we?" Faolyn's repeated question came just as Noah withdrew a key and turned the lock to the backdoor. He opened the door for the boy, and Faolyn entered curiously, more comfortable in the simple surroundings than since they'd left Tarachande's estate behind.

Noah didn't hear. His eyes moved slowly from one spot to the next, giving his mind time to recreate what had once been. At the piano bench…he could see her there. Inar's gift of music had too quickly fallen into neglect, but for a little while... The kitchen where he'd tried his hand at cooking, the table where they'd sat together in the beginning weeks, until she began to take her meals at first the chair and then in bed…

He walked, Faolyn trailing, down the short hall and stopped at her door. The chair beside the bed was still there. The brittle stem in the vase upon the end table, dried petals all around, had not been disturbed.

"Oh, look! Can I put them there?"

Faolyn moved toward the vase, and Noah threw out an arm to stop him. He should say yes. He couldn't say yes. "We will, um, find something else…"

The clock upon the shelf, its hands frozen in the moment time had stopped.

Inar had promised him everything would be left as it was. He had been good to his word at least once. Of course, that had been years past, before Noah had bought the deed. The workers who maintained the structure were under the strictest orders. Fear of a Judge Magister's wrath was a useful thing. The layers of dust covering the inner chamber in a shroud of gray, the drapes of spider 's silk, and the stagnant air filled with dust and recoiling from the light, told him his commands had been kept.

Faolyn sneezed and rubbed his nose as Noah led him on.

The small room with cobwebs at all corners and the bed Noah had never had a full night's sleep in was even smaller now that he was a man full grown. It shrank further still with the addition of Faolyn at his heels. The dark walls and few, plain furnishings seemed to warn him away. How many nights had he awakened in a cold sweat from nightmares kinder than the reality awaiting? Was the cell in Dalmasca with its unforgiving cot and chains any less welcoming?

He grasped the knob of the dresser drawer and felt it come off easily in his hand. Yes, that was the one. It was just yesterday he was here, wasn't it, and not almost twenty years? He tucked his finger into the hole left and pulled the entire drawer out.

"What are you doing?" Behind his guardian and with his view partially blocked by Noah's tall frame, Faolyn craned his neck and stretched to see, enthralled with this curious adventure.

Noah pocketed an item, removed a small pouch, and then set the drawer on the dresser top and stepped back. "Here. See if you find something you like." He sat down on the bed and rested his aching back against the wall. Faolyn dropped the flowers on the bed, opting to enjoy the trinkets instead. Noah picked the stems up, laid them on his lap, and watched as Faolyn rummaged eagerly through the items. Each little thing was dusted and inspected like something sacred and priceless.

A small ache pulsed in Noah's chest with the whisper of a wish that could never again in this life be fulfilled, but the wonder and excitement of the boy did him good. It had been his wonder and excitement once too. His and his brother's… Well, Basch had chosen what he would take and leave behind. His fingers chafed against the reed flute he'd tucked away.

A pocket watch once Eben's quickly caught the boy's eye, and Faolyn held it up by the chain and let it swing. Noticing the still hands, he turned the stem.

"It stopped working long ago, though I don't recall that ever it kept proper time," Noah interjected softly, and Faolyn placed them back in the pile.

The spectacles his father had always misplaced and so almost never worn.

The frames were large on Faolyn's youthful face, and his eyes were made to look disproportionally wide as they were magnified by the lenses. The intensification made the boy wince, and a strange blue glow was drawn from his pale orbs. Startled by the odd sphere of light, Faolyn jumped and removed the frames, tossing them to Noah in his fear.

Noah made the effortless catch and sat up at once, ignoring the resulting pain and watching in alert concern. Faolyn returned to his exploration, and Noah relaxed. Turning the eyeglasses between his fingers, Noah viewed himself in the foggy reflection and smiled wistfully. On a whim, he wiped away just enough dust from the lenses and put the glasses on. "What do you think?"

Faolyn turned to look and grinned, but then the boy sobered to thoughtfulness as he studied Noah closely and finally gave a verdict. "Good."

Noah removed the spectacles and polished the lenses carefully even as Faolyn took out a spyglass. Maybe it was the experience with the eyeglasses that made him wary, but the boy set the piece aside carefully. Privately, Noah wondered, from the branches of how many a tree had he and Basch took turns with the spyglass watching the road for a familiar cloud of dust?

Next Faolyn brought out a battered canteen, turned it over in his hands, and returned it to the drawer as Noah followed the initials, his own and his brother's, scratched into the metal until they were out of sight.

The drawer held only a fraction of what had been collected through those young years, for it had been as painful to bring them along as to leave them behind. The truth of why Noah had not been able to avoid hiding these few away when he and Delara had made their flight from home was difficult to say if too easy to know.

"What's this?" Faolyn held out a strange metal disc, dissected in the middle, and started to fiddle with the levers.

"Ha!" Noah snatched the subject with a startled laugh. "Well, maybe not that." He checked to ensure the vicious trinket gifted by a young Kasan Ranel was locked and tucked it away. Faolyn shrugged and returned to investigating the treasure trove.

The boy shook out a cut of cloth, and Noah's eyes twinkled. "Left as a calling card by a Sky Pirate who stole a collection from one of my father's clients." He winked and Faolyn grinned, but he returned to his search.

A tightly wound ball of twine was tossed hand to hand. Dog-eared books were flipped through. Old coins were buffed until they began to shine. Fossilized stones were held to the light.

"This?" The boy held the find out to his guardian for inspection. Noah managed a smile. He swallowed and stroked the iridescent shell gently before clearing his throat and handing the item back.

Eben had dumped a satchel of coins and stones, probably some of the same Faolyn had just held, upon the kitchen table. Noah had spotted the shell buried in the mix and swept the rest away to take it before his brother could get to it. _"Do you like that, Noah? It's yours then. Look here…"_ Eben had plucked the shell, which had seemed larger in Noah's hand at the time than nestled in Eben's palm, and held it to his ear. The father had happily watched his son's reaction as he too had a turn, and then, with a hearty laugh, he had tousled his son's uneven mop of hair before turning to help Basch with an important discovery of his own.

"Would you like to have it?" Faolyn nodded, suddenly timid again, and Noah patted the boy's shoulder. "It's yours then. Listen…"

"Ha!" Faolyn laughed as he held the shell to his ear and heard the roar.

Noah picked up an old coin from the batch and folded it into his hand, rubbing his thumb over the uneven surface.

"This place…?" Faolyn shrugged uncomfortably, and Noah patted the spot next to him. The boy readily took the invitation and sat down at his side.

"Was my home for a little while. The last I shared with any of my family. Here, my mother and I lived until…"

"Until she died?"

The frank wording incited a grimace, but Noah nodded. "Yes." The sadness of his eyes was transferred to the boy's, and Noah patted his hand and nodded toward the chosen treasure. "My father gave that to me when I was only a little younger than you."

Faolyn's eyes lifted swiftly to Noah's face, the blue light sparking brightly.

Like a fist to the gut, Noah understood the reason for the boy's happiness, and he bit his inner lip, tasting blood. It was foolish to get the boy's hopes up when they might be so easily dashed. Who knew if he would return from Rozarria? Who knew what his debt might require of him next? Who knew if the old man would allow the connection to remain? Who knew if he was even a fit guardian for the boy? Larsa had never counted on him in this way…

"Noah, do you have to go? We could live here. It doesn't matter that it's plain. I like it better than the Palace. Please stay."

"Faolyn…I do have to go. I am sorry." He breathed into the boy's tangled mess of hair as the lad rested his forehead against Noah's chest. "Never did I wish for you to be caught up in this madness." He held Faolyn back to look into his face. "Try to remember…try to believe that what I do, I do to protect you."

"For Larsa!"

Jealousy sprang fiercely into Faolyn's eyes and he jerked from Noah's touch, but Noah was not easily dissuaded.

"And you! Never less, Faolyn. Never less." A tear shimmered in Faolyn's eye, and from the echoes of Noah's memory, fragmented pieces of an old conversation swirled. The voices were muffled. The melody was out of tune. But a familiar strain jerked and swayed and chanted. _"Never less. Neither more."_ Noah groaned faintly, and the boy's expression switched to regret, though he stubbornly held his tongue and tried to act unconcerned.

Noah took a labored breath and calmed himself, reaching for something at his side. Curiosity roused in Faolyn's eyes, and the bitter fire soothed as Noah loosed the small pouch he'd taken from the drawer. From inside he pulled a ring of old keys. All shapes and sizes dangled there. Some were rusted; some were bright. Some were stoic in their simplicity, and some were cast in shapes of crests and crowns and creatures with wings. This time Noah didn't ask Faolyn to choose. He looked through the lot and found what he was seeking before disconnecting the circle that held them together. What he held before him seemed rather plain compared to some.

"When I was a boy, my father was sometimes away for weeks at a time…" Noah's voice was gruff, and he cleared his throat. It didn't help. "I, uh…I became afraid that he would forget…that he would forget me and my mother and brother…forget to come home to us. He told me that a key shows something belongs to you, and he gave this to me. He said…that he belonged to me." Noah held out the key to Faolyn, but the boy just stared back at him in horror.

"Your father died!"

Noah's breath caught as the familiar pain twisted inside. "Yes. He did." He looked down at the key and rubbed it between his fingers, exhaling heavily before turning to the boy again. "But he tried to come home to us. He kept his word never to forget." Noah lifted his hands and dropped them. "…That nothing will go wrong is a thing not mine to promise. A man cannot control the ebb and the flow of the tide, Faolyn. All I can give is my word that as long as the choice is mine, I will return to you. I'll not forget." He held out the key once more, and Faolyn accepted.

"Will you do just one thing for me?" Noah saw tears in Faolyn's eyes as they locked on his. "Stay. Stay here, and wait."

"Here?" Faolyn looked perplexed and distressed as he turned his eyes around the simple room, and Noah laughed at himself. Faolyn's face lightened at the welcome relief in the laughter.

"Not…here, here. Just…" Noah motioned generally, widening his span "…here."

Faolyn looked crestfallen, and his shoulders slumped dejectedly, but he agreed with a sigh. "Okay."

"Thank you, Faolyn."

They scooped up the remaining items, and Noah fondly gave them a last look as he shut them away. He put the pouch with the remaining keys back in the corner of a lower drawer and took another thing in its place. "Here. Wear this…if you can get it over that mop of hair of yours. It'll keep your head warm."

Faolyn tugged the gray wool cap over his tangled waves and smiled up at Noah. "What do you think?"

"Looks good."

They walked through the house together, and exited with Noah replacing the key in its spot under the porch. He was pulling up the hood of his cloak to shield his face from view when Faolyn posed another question, "Can we get another one of those cakes?"

"Another?" Noah's incredulous exclamation was softened by a crooked grin.

"What? I'm hungry." Faolyn, emotions as awkward as they were deep, shoved Noah roughly with his shoulder.

Noah laughed at the absurdity of the claim even as he led the way toward the street vender's location. In a few hours he'd be gone on a mission without a certain end. It was little enough to let the boy have his way in this small thing. He grappled playfully with the lad, honey strands escaping as the hood was displaced. To any observing, it was the agreeable interaction of a father and son.

The streets buzzed with traffic, and windows shimmered with rainbows of light. Faolyn started back from an air taxi that careened too wildly and too close.

"Don't be afraid. I will protect you."

"I know. Thank you."

Threads of the boy's hair whipped in the cool breeze. And the lavender petals remained, wilting, behind.


	45. Into the Lion's Den

As Noah descended the wide but shallow black granite steps that glittered with inclusions of gold and wound down into the cavern below, a repetitive echo rose to meet him.

When he cleared the stone walls of the stairwell and stepped onto the outer ring of the arena, his eyes found his brother at once.

Sweat glistened across Basch's naked shoulders, highlighting the pattern etched into his skin, as he threw his wrapped fists in a rhythm of brutal but controlled violence. The heavy bag, dangling by a thick chain of links from a beam overhead, lurched, and Basch moved in with a series of quick steps and punches before pivoting away, never taking his eyes from his passive opponent.

Noah stood watch, taking in the bared scars, evidence of wounds given in war and reminders of those claimed in confinement. Despite all sign of suffering, the marred shoulders were strong and full. It would be impossible now for any who'd not born witness to see in this hearty commander of warriors the weakened, thin prisoner stretched out for another's view. The red whelps, bruises, and chafe marks were gone, and the ribs that had threatened to split the covering of then tightened skin were buffered now by a healthy layer of muscled flesh. Briefly pain at the remembrance of the past made an appearance in Noah's eyes but yielded to warmed approval at the evidenced change.

"Was there found not one warrior of the Empire with courage to face you, Gabranth?"

Basch's disciplined pattern missed a beat as he felt the kindred familiar an instant before his twin's jesting words and the well-known pad of booted tread met his ear.

Noah's face bore a crooked grin that conflicted with the sobriety of his eyes as he addressed his brother with a name he knew Basch was bound both to hate and to love.

Basch stepped back and ran fingers through hair matted by perspiration as he turned to see Noah's approach. The damp clumps were turned to a mess of short spikes. "Noah." He blew a puff of air through his nostrils. "I wonder you have not departed on your mission."

"To take my leave without the blessing of my liege…or the council of his commander is not mine." The cautious recognition of Basch's position of authority at Larsa's side was an attempted reconciliation, but though Basch was not deaf to the offering, his pride balked at accepting words made trite by actions that spoke elsewise.

"Heh. Now, at your convenience, you recall restraint."

Solitude in which to sort out his thoughts and an aggressive diversion whereby he might relieve his frustrations were all Basch had sought. With Noah's appearing, solitude was no more and frustration threatened increase. …Why was it then that he was glad Noah had come?

Faint recollections of being wakened by the boom of thunder to the relief of his brother's form revealed by the lightning glow slipped through the splintered doors of his subconscious. How could one person bring with them foreboding and comfort?

"You know, brother," Noah's eyes made quick inventory of the chamber to see that they were alone; his smile found an ingredient of challenge intensified by the spark shining through the stirring smoke of his eyes, "if you are in need of a sparring partner, you need only ask."

Whispers of caution rose to call out warnings that resonated through Basch's spirit. Heeding the alarm, Basch answered his twin's attempt to bait him with a sniff and punctuated the rejection by turning away.

"What do you fear, brother? That you will find defeat at my hands? …Again?" This time danger flamed in Noah's coolly spoken words.

"Heh." Basch scoffed loudly and rotated back toward his twin. "Fanciful dreams you speak, brother, for your memory is grievously flawed. When last we sparred, 'twas _I_ who walked away."

"When last we…_sparred_," Noah's tone was restrained to lightly mocking, but Basch heard an acidic note of true accusation behind the veil of humor and felt Noah's anger building like a storm, "you had _friends_ to strengthen your arm." Noah looked purposefully around the vast hollow and returned his gaze to lock with his brother's. Gone was the veil of laughter, and the mask that took its place was hard as the stone upon which they stood. "Do you feel the chill, Basch? Your companions have gone and left you alone."

The resentment unexpectedly bubbling up like brew in a cauldron within Noah's soul bothered even him. He'd not come looking for a fight or to bring trouble. Why did this irrational poison flood his veins and ignite enmity when he had sought his brother out with desire for peace?

The brittle petals and shroud of gray he'd only just revisited for the first time in so long, though they were always in some way with him, crept from the corners and into the light. Noah inhaled deeply and exhaled the same, scattering the spidery shadows back to the dust. He winced as he met Basch's silent glare and shrugged a weary, almost-apology. "Old habits, brother."

Too well Basch understood what he could not understand at all and cursed the part of him that welcomed his brother's anger as recompense for the old guilt he could not expunge. Basch forced himself to relax and let it go. Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrapped hand, Basch waited as Noah stared grimly into nothingness.

"Noah…is something amiss?" He dreaded to ask, for he dreaded the answer. Still, Basch persisted. "Noah?"

The familiar and strange touch of his brother's hand on his arm startled Noah, but somehow it succeeded in pulling him from the pit of melancholy he'd stumbled into. He ignored the question and changed the subject. "Did Zargabaath bring you to this place?" Noah provided his own reply. "Heh. No, he wouldn't have… No wonder you waste your time on such things." The light of genuine laughter returned to Noah's eyes as he jerked his head toward the bag.

Basch frowned in confusion. "What are you-?"

"Where did you put-?" A glance around the room satisfied Noah. "Ah. There they are. Go retrieve your armor."

"Hm?"

Noah growled impatiently. "For once, Basch, do as I say."

Moments earlier Basch had been sorely tempted to bust his brother's lip and feed him his teeth, but the unsettling change in Noah's fluctuating temperament was as strong as it was swift to come. There was a strain of excitement and pleasure in his twin's expression that spread to his own spirit. Curiosity moved him to follow his brother's command with only a feigned show of opposition, much as many times he'd followed and then led his twin into adventure and wondrous danger in the fields of their Landisian youth.

When he returned, buckling the last strap on his left gauntlet, the bag and other crude tools of training were gone. The rings of the floor were lit at staggered intervals by softly glowing orbs. Wisps of something akin to fog or smoke twisted and twirled through the room, weaving an intricate pattern of glowing half-light.

"Enter, Gabranth." Noah was standing in center of the innermost circle beckoning to him. He'd taken a suit of armor for himself, in all likelihood from the stock held in the armory of this place. While not as elaborate or impressive as Gabranth's, it would do. In his hands he held the staff of joined blades.

Basch put on the helm and stepped onto the outer ring. He hesitated as he neared, but now Noah's voice was quietly reassuring. "This time, brother, we fight on the same side." Noah disconnected the hilts and lifted the blades high.

Warily, Basch moved forward, but as soon as he stepped onto the inner circle, the boundary of the arena transformed. Huge plates in sections rose with a heavy clank to construct a wall of confinement around the combatants, stacking and climbing into the air until those inside could view nothing past the rings, sealing them as if entombed. There was now no escape.

His years in Nalbina Dungeon had given Basch more reason than most to despise confinement, and the thought of being locked inside closed walls gave rise to a certain amount of residual fear. With an unintended gasp of alarm Basch whirled to face his twin just in time to see Noah stab the Chaos Blade and Highway Star into the pattern at his feet. At once the chamber exploded in an eerie kaleidoscope of light and became alive with sound as the woven threads burst into form and flight and came screaming for his head and strange beasts and beings poured from each glowing orb at his feet.

"Call the weapon you need!" Noah's voice cut through the madness.

"Wha-" A swarm of minute, buzzing particles of color and sound flew into one another and emerged from the pattern as a Dive Talon, mighty wings throwing smaller mist beings screaming toward his head, and rendering discussion mute.

"Longbow!" The weapon appeared in Noah's hand, translucent arrows were loosed, and the beast and shafts vanished on impact.

"Spear!" The Wild Saurian's breath was hot on his face as it roared a greeting and spit glowing saliva his way. The spear was weighted in Basch's hand. The thrust met resistance and then slid forward with the feel of flesh giving way. The Saurian shuddered and was gone, taking the spear with him. It had all seemed so real…

"Ow!" A sharp stinging sensation made him grab at the back of his calf for a glowing shard. His hand passed through the splinter, and the glowing object faded away. The sting remained.

Noah called forth a hefty gale, and Basch watched what appeared to be a Cactoid rise in a swirl of needles until it was no more. "These illusions cannot kill you," Noah advised, laughter in his voice as he called loudly over the noise, "but they can make you hurt. On this, brother, take my word. …Watch out there!"

A mixed company of Behemoths and High Reavers appeared to surround the brothers even as various other small creatures slithered and squirmed in the midst of the floor and darted through the air. But it was like old times as children at play. Instinct and understanding woven in days long before training and trials took over.

"Noah-" There was no need to finish the warning. No call to explain.

"Sword!" Noah heeded Basch's unspoken direction and swiveled, blade extended and slashing through the charging High Reaver even as Basch took two Behemoth in one stroke.

"You're falling behind in the count, brother," Basch called out over the snarling cries and ghostly refrains stirring inside the vault.

"My High Reaver was worth three of your Behemoths, and with this," a cut of the blade left another beast undone in a flash of light, "I've slain four," Noah returned with a growl. His hand shot out to knock a wandering Silver Lobo out of the way, and it was lost in a glowing charge that soon faded.

"Then you'll be pleased to know we are tied, for that makes twelve Behemoth for me," Basch tossed back easily.

"Heh." Another High Reaver disintegrated into shimmering dust. "Five."

"Fourteen…sixteen."

"Seven. Eight."

"Twenty-five."

"Well, that's hardly right. There aren't any more Reavers left." Noah scowled beneath his helm as he looked for a way to even the score. He called for an ice bow and shot a Gargoyle floating at the heights of the enclosure, but was still dissatisfied.

"Obviously, you miscalculated when you rigged the trial, brother." Basch jested as he addressed his brother.

"Ah! Ah!" Noah gasped in feigned shock that quickly turned to a humored challenge. "Heh. So that's how you want it."

Basch shrugged good-naturedly and shattered the swelling throat of a Wildsnake with the heel of his boot.

"All right," Noah opened his arms wide, newly called sword blades extended. "Let's have at it then."

The Behemoths and Reavers were replaced by a bevy of slumping, skulking, howling Ghasts and Forbidden that came at them and were expelled with more energy and attention to count back to the void from whence they crept. Slaven, Yeti, Wildsnake, Bagoly, Coeurl, and various Elementals: the ghostly crew fell to the twin warriors and their rich armory of enchanted weaponry.

As the last party of Iguion, Worgen, Vampyr, and Redmaw were vanquished, the wispy strains of color aimlessly spiraled, and a melodic harmony of laughter lifted: the brother's laughter. The sound of such unrestrained cheer was startling to their ears, but it was a happiness neither wished to quench.

"Well, that was..." Fun. He was surprised by the realization, but, yes, fun it had been. When was the last time he'd thought such of an encounter with his twin? "…hardly a challenge." Basch breathed heavily even as he made the claim. He lifted the helm and inhaled deeply.

Noah raised the visor on his own helm, lips tilted knowingly as he first viewed his brother and then saw to his own aches. Still, his talk too was full of swagger, even if his joints wished his tongue would still. "Well, then you're in luck, brother, for that was only the warm-up."

"Huh?"

"Put on your helm, Basch."

Noah's eyes were already on the thing rising from the inner circle. Streams of mist from the orbs in all surrounding rings added to that building in the center.

Helm safely returned to its place, Basch watched warily. "What is it?"

"Mind you keep your head!"

The warning came none too soon.

The distinctive swish of blades in the wind was nearly masked by the strange swell of music, itself all but drowned by a thundering echo of boastful laughter.

"Surely not-" Basch looked to Noah incredulously.

Noah avoided his gaze and casually advised, "I hope you equipped Dispel, brother."

"You might have given warning!"

But Basch was readied, as Noah had trusted he would be.

"And rob you of your pleasure?"

The ground exploded at their feet. A geyser of pebbles burst up and showered down around them as a sudden growth lifted them high into the air. The stone building beneath their feet looked real enough, felt steady enough, but, in the little amount of time he had to consider, Basch wondered. He felt like a puppet hanging on a mist-woven string that might unravel in the next heartbeat. If the body had no weight to it, why did the bridge itself seem to shake? Why the spray of broken stone that pelted his armor and caused it to ring? Noah's lack of concern shamed his misgivings, and Basch spent his concentration on the massive being vaulting down upon them.

"Now we fight!" The swords slashed the air, and Noah and Basch parted to flank their opponent.

"Fools! You face the mightiest swordsman in all Ivalice!" A vicious slash from a sword in each hand put emphasis to the words.

Six arms, six hands, six swords: Were they all, body and blade, imitation only?

Basch rolled to avoid an incoming strike, and called a sword to parry the blow as Noah took advantage of the distraction his brother brought to circle around and attack from behind.

As if in answer to Basch's unspoken suspicions, the booming voice indignantly proclaimed, "This sword I wield is no counterfeit!"

It was a claim he'd heard before from this brightly costumed opponent, one he might demand proof of as Judge Magister if the case came before him. For the moment, it was enough that the blows landed would bring enough pain to be believed and to cast away concerns over authenticity of the blades or the material substance of the apparition.

There was something more than the reluctance to find out just how damaging these blades, false or faux, might be if they connected that drove Basch into the battle. When last he'd met this adversary, Basch had stood side by side with friends and his Queen. Their partnership had been forged from common ground and common need. Now, he stood with his brother.

They threw themselves silently into the fight, focused and in unison. When their enemy called his own strength, Basch was ready to expel the benefits and Noah to strike at his newfound weakness. Their blows connected in perfect timing. Their reactions were in flawless synchrony. They answered one the other without words. When Basch set the stage, Noah answered the cue. When Noah provided the mark, Basch moved into place.

"Are you ready to bring this to an end, Noah?" Basch called over the mocking laughter and boastful claims.

"If you wish." No. He was not. Weary as his damaged body was, Noah savored every moment of this pretense. Never in his years since leaving Landis had he been as close to the chase through the fields after the Dragon as now. But boys grow up, time demands its price, and there are tasks left to fulfill. Whether ready or not, it was time.

Basch watched the warm glow of flame as it was called and came to dance on the blade in Noah's hand. The angry, sporadic raging that once had burned uncontrollably was gone, and the will seemed at first to waver, but strength enough remained to find its way.

As their opponent readied a massive onslaught meant to be their last, Noah saw the pause that came over Basch and the charge of steady light that ran down his hands and reflected on the blade's edge.

Together, they struck.

"Heh. I've fought worse." The massive form gathered strength and bounded from the bridge, disappearing into light and vanishing to nothingness before he hit the ground. It was not quite as Basch had remembered. Where was the trusty companion, always such a nuisance on the battle field?

"So you said the previous two times I faced you," Basch's muttered after him with a sniff, and Noah's face, could Basch have seen beneath the helm he'd donned, bore disappointment.

"Ah, so you've met then." The ingredient hidden on his face was present in Noah's voice and not kept from Basch's ears.

"Always a challenge, nonetheless," Basch found himself hastening to assured his twin.

Noah shrugged and sighed. "Well, perhaps I might have chosen a less familiar opponent for you, brother, if I'd time to consider more carefully. Zargabaath would have organized a more structured ceremony to be sure. A Judge Magister should be properly initiated. If naught else, now you can say, you have been to the lion's den." Noah uncovered his head, sweat dampened locks mussed. A glimmer of pride shown in his eyes as he studied his brother.

And the floor fell from beneath them.

"Whoa!" The Judge Magister's cloak billowed around Basch's shoulders, catching the mist-filled air like a canopy as he plummeted from the pinnacle of the towering arena toward the stone below.

Noah dove from the edge of the vanishing bridge right behind him. "Wyvern!"

Sometimes the best laid plans decay before your eyes. This was not one of these times, for Noah could not claim to have planned for this day at all.

The giant shadow that swept into the void brought a sharp, cool breeze as it whipped the shimmering air and stirred the violet fog.

"H-uh" Noah slammed into the creatures back and saw stars and darkness only for an instant.

The same wings that kept Noah aloft pushed Basch more hastily toward the fast approaching, and all too real, floor below.

Noah scrambled across the rough span between wings and snatched with both hands the black mantel snapping the air. The resistance of his brother's body was real if nothing else. His mind raced to find the right words to bring this scene to a pleasant end.

"Flan!" Basch choked out the word as the cloak tightened around his neck.

"Yes, Flan!" Noah joined in just in time, and Basch fell, or bounced, into the transparent monsters bubbling up from the floor.

"Spear!" Basch called the weapon to hand as Noah tucked and rolled from the winged beast that was screaming with open jaw toward Basch's head, and the tip of the mist-called spear slid just past Noah's ear to pierce the Wyvern and scatter it to nothing.

Noah groaned as his body collided with his twin's. The hissing and pulsating of the flans reminded them that their saviors weren't sedate and sweet.

They got to their feet and moved away, feeling the aches and pains of their strange adventure, and observing the jewel-toned jelly-like creatures with disgust and curiosity.

"Well, that was…" Noah rubbed his eyes in embarrassment.

"Lion's den?" Basch queried, and Noah chuckled.

"Well, so it was called by Drace when she so kindly introduced me."

_He'd had no idea that the meeting to which Drace had so dispassionately escorted him, talking the ordinary business of the day, was anything out of the norm. He was too unaccustomed to the Magistry to see the signs that would have told him otherwise. Later he knew that he should have realized when Zecht passed by and shot him a sly look full of mirth or seen a clue in the cruel anticipation in Bergan's leering gaze when they'd met earlier in the day to discuss a security matter. He'd assumed then that the humor written on Zecht's face had been drawn from his presence at Drace's side, and Bergan had never needed great reason for malicious pleasure. _

_When he'd stepped onto the rings, the way had sealed with a heavy thud followed by the clank of bolts. Before his suddenly heightened senses had processed what was happening, he was shoved forward into the circle, and mist light had revealed his colleagues around the circumference with drawn weapons raised in salute. Swirling fog and eerie inks of color had filled the chamber as magicked terrors dropped like seeds of molten glass and sprang up full grown and terrible from the surface. Drace's voice had called out triumphantly, "Welcome to the Lion's Den!" _

_It was good there'd been no mission to see to in the immediate aftermath. He'd fought off mad hordes of mist foes while his colleagues one by one joined the side of the enemy against him. And then he'd held his own against them all, though it had been more about maintaining defense and proving his skill than any thought of victory. If Zargabaath hadn't mercifully called the session to a close, he'd have had to crawl back to his quarters. He'd passed the test and proven himself worthy, but he was so sore and exhausted after, he had collapsed into the nearest chair inside the door of his quarters, unable to even pull off his boots. _

"Zecht liked to call it Hell away from Home. It was called other things as well, but not such as you'd repeat to Larsa." He gave a knowing look, and Basch snorted lightly. Yes, he understood. In a business that dealt with death and pain, many found it was a valuable defense to learn to mock what was feared, and often this was done in terms not able to be repeated in polite society: certainly not before the Lady Ashe or young Larsa.

A clatter across the room startled them. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

Around the circle the fey likenesses of Zargabaath and the other fallen Judge Magisters sprang, solemn and ready for the next round.

Noah watched his brother closely. Basch had slipped seamlessly into his tone. Even his manner had changed. "…Zargabaath was right, you know."

Noah pulled the pair of familiar swords from the slots. His hands closed over the grips, recalling the balanced weight of the blades and the ease of their use in battle before they were handed over to his brother. The ghostly circle of Judge Magisters faltered and faded into nothingness, though soft patches of mist remained in the air. The Flan too disappeared, glimmering streaks alone left to mark their recent presence. The sound of gears and steel filled the space, and the panels making up the walls of the confines folded and fell and were no more.

Basch lifted his eyes to his twin. "As to what?"

"We are both Gabranth, brother, but we are not the same." Noah's eyes were overshadowed once more in a melancholy shade, but a trace of gentleness drifted lightly through the clouds.

Basch's lips moved to form words, but his tongue offered none.

"The name comes to you by our mother. The title is Larsa's to bestow as he wills. You are Basch fon Ronsenburg, and you are Gabranth. To be Judge Magister of the Empire makes you no less yourself."

"The aim of this game we play," Basch threw his arms out before him, "is secrecy."

"The aim is to defend Larsa and the free peoples of Ivalice. Secrecy is a tool now as always it has been."

"Tis so, but-"

"I put on the armor of Basch fon Ronsenburg once…"

Basch studied his gauntlets, scuffed from the strange battle.

"It brought no change to the man beneath." That wasn't entirely true. It had nearly destroyed him, but the point remained. He had not put on his brother's skin or found his heart with a matching suit.

Basch looked to see the heavy sadness on his twin's face and found the wish to ease his suffering, but Noah was intent on his course.

"When I sought to question the prisoner, I walked among the soldiers of the Empire in garb not fit for a Judge Magister and was believed, because I knew this: even without a name, I am Gabranth. I cannot shed who I am, Basch, were I to wish it." He licked dry lips. "…And you should not wish it."

"What are you asking of me?"

"You are not fully Gabranth, because you are not yourself. You must be yourself, Basch, and then you will be Gabranth."

Alarm lifted Basch's scarred brow.

"Be at ease, I'm not suggesting you hire a street urchin to run about the City yelling 'Basch fon Ronsenburg lives,' brother." Noah's lips twisted in a sardonic half-smile, and Basch couldn't help but chuckle.

"So, you enjoyed that, did you?"

"Heh. _Enjoyed_ might not be the proper word to describe…"

"Ah, well. The tact was useful at the time."

"I noticed."

"As _I _noticed."

Noah snorted, but in his eyes, scoffing had turned to regard, and his lips wore a wistful smile.

"You have always known who you are and what you wanted, Basch. It is only the armor you wear that has changed, and not the man." There was a hint of admiration and of envy in his tone.

"Why are you speaking so?" Basch was becoming wary. "You _do_ mean to return from Rozarria…"

"Does ever a warrior know?" Faolyn's fear struck at Noah's heart. Such a burden was the faith and trust of others. Was he strong enough to carry the weight again?

"Noah."

"If I do not-"

"Noah, borrow not from calamity yet to show its face." Irritation born of fear made its way into Basch's tone.

"_If"_

" You wish me to look after another child? Is that it?" Basch scratched the nape of his neck and attempted a lighthearted laugh, but this time Noah wasn't amused.

"No." He growled and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Come, Noah, I was only-"

"Eh." Noah waved the explanation away. "There is some coin I set aside-"

"If you've need of Gil, you need only-"

"-in a strongbox with a Magicked seal at a location I will leave you."

"Noah…"

"If I should not return, Basch, see the coin is spent for Faolyn's keep. You need do nothing more. Sir Jolon, as you know him, is the boy's official guardian."

"If I am to be administrator of your will, Noah, you must answer me this: do you wish to find the worst you prepare for, or do you yet hope for better?"

"Long has it been since I have basked in the warmth of hope." Memories of their childhood, of lying beside his twin in the fields of Landis, of looking at the stars and dreaming lands beyond, returned strongly only to fade like the petals on their mother's nightstand. "Those days are lost to me."

"Hope, Noah," Basch's voice was low and gentle, like their father's had once been in moments of council, "is only lost when you stop looking."

Noah flinched at the words as if they'd been accompanied by a slap to the face. "What if it is hope that leaves you?"

"I meant you no harm, Noah." _Now or then,_ the inference was as stark in return.

"Your _intention_ is as futile as your words. Keep your silence, Basch. Long have you tended to its care."

Basch scuffed his boot on the polished stone. "So be myself then." He laughed ironically, and Noah flushed and rubbed his eyes.

"Ah, Basch…" A weary sigh turned to a desperate chuckle, and soon the brothers were roaring with laughter they could not stay. Their eyes teared, and they braced themselves against the cold stone and against one another to keep from falling. Finally they deposited themselves upon a polished step of stone to stretch their aching muscles.

"The shadow of despair is not meant for you." Finally able to control his own voice, Noah's words came quietly. When Basch lifted his head to catch Noah's eye, Noah looked away. "Your hope was not too late for Lord Larsa."

They sat looking together toward the faded blurs of shine where had stood the visages of Judge Magisters upon the ring.

"As his protector, I believed in him and defended the hope he might bring." Noah smiled softly at the memories of young Larsa. "He believes in you, brother, because he sees hope in you. He believes in you, because he watched you find hope and deliver it safely to the one whose defense was your charge before him. Your hope was not too late for Emperor Larsa…or for Dalmasca's Queen." His world-weary smile revealed his own understanding of how strange a thing it was that he of all should hold Ashelia up as example of Basch's good.

And then his voice fell to a hoarse whisper. "Your hope was not too late for our mother, Basch. Always she believed the best of you. Always she understood…what I could not…" Noah's strength gave out and he dropped his head into his hands.

"You mustn't lose hope, Basch. You must never forget that by whatever name you are called and whatever title you take, you are Basch fon Ronsenburg. Larsa's hope needs yours to sustain it. He would be lost without you."

The words were muffled, but Basch heard.

"Thank you, brother." It was an inadequate response, but Basch found it difficult to speak. "Your words comfort me."

"I'm so tired, Basch…" Noah's almost inaudible line fell softly between them and there remained.


End file.
